Searching
by Avari20
Summary: AU... Draco despairs of ever finding the One for him until a family curse sends him 600 years into the past into the arms of...Hermione Granger? On Hiatus
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

There are moments in each life in which a man or woman confronts a terrible truth. It is the moment when innocence dies, and one's own mortality comes into painful focus.

The young woman stood on the topmost battlement and watched the scene unfold. Brown eyes wide, she ignored the wind tearing at her gown and hair, howling in eerie harmony with the death screams below. Treachery. Someone within their midst had betrayed them all and let in the demons.

In that moment breathing becomes a laborious endeavor. The air seems to seep slowly in and out of the body, heavy and sluggish. The sound echoes in one's ears until all other noise is completely blocked out.

Her hands curling into claws that scraped the stone, she saw the enemy soldiers pour in through the open gate.

Legs become unsteady, and one is forced to rely on the strength of shaky arms to remain upright. Bitter dread turns the heart to ice. One is assailed by the sense that he or she is no longer in control, and never really had been. Then the silence breaks, and a deafening cacophony rushes over this person.

She watched in surreal horror as man after man fell underneath the sword, crying out in wordless pain and desperation. She imagined the hands that went up toward the skies beseeched her as much as the heavens. They seemed to cry. _You are our lady, save us!_

Her world was dying before her very eyes.

She wrenched away from the battlement and race toward the tower door. Her skirts billowing behind her, she somehow reached the ancient wooden portal that had placed itself on the other side of a veritable sea of air. The stairs twisted and turned with more frequency then she could remember, making it an eternity before she reached the bottom landing. Just as she thought she had reached the end, the corridor merely turned once more. She collided with wall after wall on the way down, scraping her hands and cheeks before continuing to run almost blindly.

Finally she was through the door—and into mayhem.

Time suddenly seems to take on unnatural speed, and one cannot help but be swept away.

Women and children scrambled about, gathering what they could, praying for their men and for guidance. "Leave everything but yourselves and your children!" the lady cried, grabbing the nearest passerby roughly by the shoulder. "Magda! You must get all of our people together and go to the dungeons!" she commanded in a rush.

The frightened woman shook her head in confusion. "The dungeons, my lady? They'll corner us and murder us for sure!" She started to sob. "Oh, my Will! Those evil blighters are killing him, I just know it!"

The lady felt for the poor girl, but she and the others had to save themselves so that they may grieve later. "They won't catch you if you hurry, Magda. I have a way for you to get out. Where's Hannah?" she asked brusquely.

"Here!"

A young woman came sprinting down the hall. Her beautiful face, identical to the lady's, was pale and worried. She clutched a little baby in her arms, terrified for the child's life. Only three days old, the lady thought, and already fleeing for his life. She quickly wrapped her arms around her twin. "Hannah, you have to take the women out," she whispered frantically in her twin's ear. The two had been inseparable since birth, facing frightened allegations of being the children of the devil and then the hazards of daily life hand in hand.

"I remember the way," Hannah said, clutching her sister in return. She leaned back far enough to look into matching brown eyes. Her brow furrowed. "You're coming with us, aren't you?" she asked. The longer she looked, though, the more clear her answer became. Hannah stepped back and shook her head in denial. "I won't leave you!" she said defiantly.

"Hannah, you have to! You have your baby to think of now," her twin said in a rush. She couldn't hide the tears that welled up and slipped down her cheeks. It hurt to know that this was the last time she would ever see her twin's beloved face. But it had to be this way. She couldn't let Hannah die. She bent and kissed the baby's soft cheek, ignoring the fretful expression on the infant's face. "He has to grow up," she said. A small laugh, totally at odds with the dire situation, bubbled up. "To think I was jealous that you got to be a mother first, Hannah. It looks like I will be doing something on my own too."

Death was the one journey she and her sister couldn't share. Hastily she began to push Hannah in the direction she needed to go. "Hurry, time is running out. Take Magda and as many as you can save."

Hannah went, knowing that for her baby to live her sister had to die. Knowing that her sister had already taken the painful decision out of her hands forever. Knowing that this was what had to be. Several feet away she turned around and looked long at the person who had been her other half. "I love you!" she called out over the din.

Her twin smiled, unashamed of her tears. "Live!" she called back. And then her sister was gone, swept away by the panicked people and the rush for survival.

In one fateful day, the mighty castle that had housed her family for centuries fell. In one day, her people scattered to the four winds, taking her sister and their legacy with them. In one day, she saw her world ripped apart by greed. In one day, her life was destroyed.

It was all over. Nothing she had done had stopped the terrible thing from happening. She had picked up a sword and cut down so many that the blood dripped from her lowered blade. It stained her tattered gown and permeated her spirit. It tangled in her hair and spattered her cheek. An angel of Death, who could nothing to stem the waves of destruction.

As she stood before the one who had taken it all away, she found herself filled with a hatred that knew no bounds. It was black and fiery, consuming her heart and strangling every gentle feeling she had ever had. It was so searing that she felt bile rise in her throat. She could taste the hatred on her tongue, feel it burn in her eyes, felt it spread until it flooded her skin. She became Hatred in that moment, and knew no other feeling.

"Where is it?" the Devil asked caustically. He stood dressed in shiny armor that gleamed despite all the lives he had taken that day. Silver blue eyes flashed with strange intensity. They focused on her, willed her speak, to give him what he coveted above all things. She despised that handsome face, the blonde hair gathered in a queue at his neck and tumbling down that broad back. A body of Adonis, and a soul of a demon.

"You'll never find it," she taunted. Her chest was heaving, sucking in great gulps of precious air that would all too soon be taken away by this man.

"You stupid girl!" the man raged, pointing his broadsword toward her heart and shaking it. "You've lost! It is now I who will rule our world! I've taken everything away from this supposedly mighty family, and I _will have my prize_." His beautiful lips curled in a snarl, he advanced on her. She didn't have a chance. They were surrounded by his followers. The same men that jeered and laughed wouldn't hesitate to cut her down should she try to run. She _had _to fight.

She raised her sword, knowing that her skills were no match for his. Still she tried. In moments the weapon flew from her hand and skidded across the floor. She glared over the sword now poised with the tip resting over her heart. "Give it to me," the man repeated with deadly earnest.

"You've sacrificed everything you had today. Is there nothing you won't do for power?" she growled.

"Nothing," he spat back. "Now tell me where it is!" he roared. His hand shook with anticipation of the kill, of finally receiving what he had coveted for years.

A demonic smile suddenly spread itself over her face, so forceful and uncharacteristic that it startled him for a moment. Words flowed fast and freely from her lips, so low that only he could hear them. The men watched in amazement as their leader's eyes flew wide in shock. With a bellow of rage he lurched back. "You dirty bitch!" he screamed in fury.

A flash of light on metal, a quick scream of anger and denial. The lady lay on the floor, eyes fixed sightlessly on the beautiful ceiling, her lifeblood leaving her quickly. Her eyes felt so heavy…..

Her last breath left her.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Author's Notes- 

Welcome to _Searching_! I'm Avari. I'm the author of three other fanfictions (_Future Parents Program_, _Before She'd Ever Been Born_, and _Off Limits.)_ You can find the first two right here at but Off Limits is much too explicit for these waters, so it resides at and my homepage.

This fiction is very different from the others I've written. It will have a slower build up, and I'll have to research a lot of things before I feel comfortable posting. I'm a History major, so that isn't really a problem. I just wanted to warn anyone who knows me (and those of you who don't) that Searching is a horse of a different color!

Last but not least, REMEMBER TO REVIEW! My confidence is very fragile, and I need reviews to keep me going! (Yeah, that's right, I'm not afraid to admit it!)


	2. Part I

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned Harry Potter Characters, but I don't. JKR does.**

**Part I**

Long story short, Draco gets drunk in library. House elf comes to library with letter from dead father. Letter tells Draco to haul his ass to Scotland or risk the extinction of the Malfoy family.

Alright, alright, so it deserves a bit more explanation than that. Back in Hogwarts, Draco had been considered one of _the_ most handsome blokes around.

He'd dated around the first few years after graduation, and even met some girls he'd seriously considered marrying. But something had always gone wrong.

Bizarrely wrong.

Giselle had run off with a circus clown. Rachel had decided to take a trip to the Himalayas and ended up falling in love with her tour guide. None had wounded Draco as sorely has Dana had, however. Dear, darling, desirous Dana had suddenly felt a higher call and decided to join a Muggle nunnery!

Nothing said "I love you" like giving up your worldly possessions and abandoning your handsome boyfriend for a building full of women.

It had hurt, blast them. The horrifying possibility that something might actually be wrong with him had had Draco in quite the emotional state on his birthday.

The thought that all the times he'd tormented girls were coming back to haunt him was chilling. He had even gotten tipsy enough to wonder if he was _ever_ going to have a family. Being the last male Malfoy still alive, he had a heavy responsibility to shoulder and all that, but it was something more.

Was it wrong to want to have a family just to have one? People did it every day, why couldn't he? He rather fancied the thought of having little someones to take care of and teach. Hell, it wasn't like he was ice or anything. He wanted someone to come home to and share with too, damn it to the triple-hottest hell!

That's when Father dearest decided to poke his damn dead nose into it. A month ago Draco had turned twenty-five. Twenty-five, rich, handsome…and single. Draco growled softly as he continued to search the wall fruitlessly. Every time a witch magazine wrote an article on his unattached state, an associate asked about any of the fabled droves that supposedly pursued him, or his mother so much as gave him _that_ look…..It rubbed salt in the cursed wound!

Anyway, the letter had arrived from the proverbial grave, care of a house elf. In it Lucius expounded on family history for a bit. About six or seven centuries ago their ancestor Aniston Malfoy had captured a castle in a rather devious and bloody power move. He'd solidified the Malfoy position in the wizarding world while the thing had been in its infancy.

He'd also been looking for something.

Let's rephrase. He'd been _obsessed _with finding something, so much so that when he hadn't found it, he'd cursed his own family. Either find it by the time the last son married, or he would never see the ceremony.

In other words—get it, or die.

Draco would never get married if he didn't drop everything, go to Scotland, and do his damnedest to find Aniston's prize. The Malfoy line would die with Draco.

Hell of a birthday gift.

And it just kept getting better. Draco had done what research he could to find out what the hell Aniston had wanted. He hadn't found _that_, but he'd discovered several other interesting facts. Not a single Malfoy had resided more than a few weeks at the fortress. Not one. In the centuries since its acquisition it had stayed empty most of the time, yet eerily managed to stay in almost pristine shape.

Alright, pristine was an exaggeration, but the thing wasn't a pile of rubble. Draco had read diary after diary of stalwart Malfoy men who seemed to tremble at the very idea of the place. Many refused to mention it at all after they returned.

Intriguing, to say the least.

For centuries, the Castle of the Dead Ones had been the proclaimed seat of the Malfoy family. Residing in deepest Scotland, it inspired stories of fabulous fortunes and power, of intrigues and alliances, of life and death struggles that always turned out in the Malfoy family favor. From the looks of the blasted gate Draco currently glared at, however, Draco was almost convinced that he'd taken a wrong turn and ended up at somebody else's fortress.

The place was a wreck. One big, creepy wreck. Draco had passed the night hiking up miles of deserted trail, surrounded by the raucous harmonies of every night animal imaginable. Now there was utter silence. Not a single sound made it through the early morning mist. Birds stayed silence in the shadow of the structure. For someone used to the bustle of city life, Draco found the hush thunderous. The walls before him seemed to reach the sky, looking down on him with disdain. The thing actually had a genuine drawbridge, and the old-fashioned portcullis was set against enemies that had died out long ago. Turrets, towers, and indestructible walkways peeked over the stone—and Draco was jiggered if he wasn't going to get inside.

Sighing, Draco heaved the knapsack off his shoulder and flung it with unnecessary force against the ancient barrier. He cursed his father for the millionth time since he'd begun this ridiculous endeavor even as he ran his fingers along the wall. Lucky for him, Malfoys always planned for the unexpected. If Draco remembered his father's letter right, there was a hidden door that would open if one pressed in just the right spot.

"Eureka!" he cried out. The latch had been tripped, and a door of false stone crept open to Draco's left. He wondered briefly at the well-oiled condition of the hinges, but refused to dwell on it. Instead he got his sack and stepped into the musty darkness. He dug out his wand. "Luminos," he muttered. He could see nothing unusual within the close confines. There was a dirt floor and a few feet of space before Malfoy came upon the other door. It had a surprisingly advanced lock system on it, but he managed to get out only after a moment.

So now he stood in a vast empty courtyard. Vines and what looked to be rose bushes had broken out of their designated beds and tried to take over the walls. One got the eerie feeling that everyone had suddenly stopped what they were doing and filed out of the place single file. Everything was just that still, but with a heavy sense of expectation, like something had just been about to happen. If years hadn't worn away the white wash from the stones, if Draco hadn't personally witnessed that fact that no footprints but his own existed in the dirt, then he might have suspected that he had just stepped back in time.

In its heyday, the castle had been quite something to see. Stories open stories of stone centered around a gigantic courtyard, where the men and women would have spent most of their time working. The walls held an unusual number of large windows, a health hazard but pleasant to look upon. Draco felt as though the outside world no longer existed. It was cut off by the impossible height of the wall, and this was a new world in which he had to negotiate.

As he crossed the great expanse, Draco noticed that his footsteps echoed off of the long empty walls. He was the only person in the entire castle, with its ancient furniture, its cold aura despite the warm day, and its secrets.

The Castle of the Dead Ones. Morbid, but appropriate.

* * *

The place was an antique. There were pieces of furniture from literally every era. There were chairs and tables, weapons cases and suits of armor. Clothes, bowls, and various other pieces of daily living littered every available surface. Some were covered in heavy dust. Some looked freshly made thanks to a quick spell or two, no doubt. Everywhere Draco looked, evidence of several generations of occupation stood out. No doubt Granger would have been in the throes of passion over it all, he thought dryly. Wonder what she was doing these days? 

Ever since the Great War, Draco had focused solely on his family and their responsibilities. It had been years since he'd talked to anyone but a few Slytherins. Mostly his time was taken up by foreigners with trouble pronouncing their 'r's and developed aversions to introducing him to their daughters. If he recalled right, Granger had had a particular interest in history. Draco looked briefly at himself in a dust caked mirror likely from the 17th century. There was plenty of _that_ floating around here. Again the feeling that someone was supposed to show up any moment and simply pick up where they left off assailed him. He looked over his shoulder and shifted the knapsack, ignoring the pain in his shoulders.

Maybe it was the utter quiet of the place, or maybe it was the hodgepodge of artifacts that was doing it, but Draco couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone watching him. It prickled the hair on the back of his neck, making him super aware of his surroundings. Then again, he could be letting his imagination get the best of him. Aniston hadn't exactly bought the place on a Muggle credit card. He'd killed people, and though the details were sketchy, Draco got the impression that his ancestor was no one to be trifled with. It was the castle's violent history that lent it it's creepy vibe, Draco rationalized.

But then the history of the place was why he was here, wasn't it? Draco had to stay here and put his life on hold to find the things that would tell him what had really happened all those years ago. Then he'd find out what exactly had had Aniston so enthralled, find it, and get the hell back to London and a love life as soon as possible.

He just hoped that the whole thing ended better than it had begun. Reaching the Great Hall, Draco strode immediately to the gigantic fireplace and set to work. As he prepared a fire to make food on, he mentally catalogued all the mental trauma he'd been subjected to because of Aniston's ridiculous obsession.

First he'd had to put his life on hold. Finding someone to take over your financial interests, especially those as vast as his, was a scary thing. Then he'd had to find the place, which wasn't on any map. The locals refused to acknowledge it by pointing strangers in its direction. Then he'd found that he couldn't Apparate because of ancient wards. This forced him to hike mile after forsaken mile through wilderness. Malfoy hated wilderness. He and Nature did not get along by any means.

And now he was being forced to prepare his own food. If it wasn't for the fact that he had his wand, and therefore an instrument to facilitate daily life, Malfoy would have gone stark raving mad. Or starved to death.

* * *

One week later….

"Stark raving mad" was exactly where he was going!

"Bloody ancestors!" Book after book sailed across the room, propelled by Malfoy fury. Disregarding the fragile nature, not to mention historical value of every single thing in the neglected tower repository, Draco hurled anything he could get his hands on. Journals, memoirs, treatises, diaries, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had spent every waking moment combing through centuries of written material left behind by countless Malfoys…

"And not finding one useful bloody thing!" Draco bellowed. A ledger of rent accounts from 1542 found itself snatched up and thrown into a stack of sheep husbandry records from 1869. The pages scattered helplessly, an innocent sacrifice to the alter of Malfoy temper. Malfoy grabbed his longish blonde hair and pulled. "I'm surrounded by the pontifications of idiots!" Who cared about Melissa Malfoy's romantic explorations? Well, ok, that _had _been rather interesting. Or at least until Draco had realized he was reading the intimate details of his great-great-great grandmother's love life, and been summarily grossed out.

But the information he sought didn't seem to exist. No one would say why Malfoys never stayed at the fortress. Records and accounts simply stopped in their tracks abruptly. If there were complete records to be found for something like financial status, more often than not the records had been imported and then abandoned. Whatever the reason, it had scared Malfoys bad enough to abandon their portfolios, and that was quite something. Frustrated, Draco stared at the stone wall as if imploring it to open up and reveal to him what he needed.

A first hand account from Aniston's era.

Without such a thing, Draco had no place to start, which meant that there was no end in sight but his own untimely one. Draco growled in renewed anger. Cursed by his own blinkin' ancestor! What happened to family loyalty? Was there nothing sacred anymore!

He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to get out, get some air, see some sunshine. With the speed of the desperate Draco rushed out of the confining room. It resided in a smaller tower, one of many on the castle grounds. He hadn't spent any time on exploring his surroundings. He'd found the supposed treasure trove of written information fairly quickly. After all, every Malfoy for centuries had used much the same method. The third floor had always served as the basis for private family dealings, such as a records room. So the entire week had been spent cooped up in a airtight room searching fruitlessly for hours on end.

Fat lot of good that had done, Draco thought sourly as he barreled out onto the tower's ground landing. He hurried down the hall, ignoring the priceless junk that seemed to crowd every nook and cranny of the heap. He ignored gold, silver, jewelry, buckets, mirrors, and hundreds of other valuable things that might have drawn a lesser wizard. Correction--a less wealthy wizard. It wasn't until Draco realized that he'd been walking to no where for several minutes that he slowed down.

The Castle of the Dead Ones really was an interesting find, he thought suddenly. If he wasn't so pissed off at a relative he hadn't even met, Draco might have taken the time to give the place a proper look over. Being a fortress, the stone had accumulated a lot of dust over the years. The windows leant a good deal of light most of the time, but it was falling into night now. He supposed that lighting a few torches wouldn't require too much effort.

It was in the middle of reaching up to light the first torch that it happened. A tingling sensation, so strong and distinct that it sent an shiver down Draco's spine immediately. His head jerked immediately to the right. His wand was out in duel position without conscious thought. Gray eyes darted back and forth swiftly, trying to discern the threat from the shadows.

There was nothing there.

* * *

Who's there?

The question trembled on the edge of her lips, but she couldn't seem to make a sound. Fog draped her mind in a heavy curtain, dulling her thoughts and muffling much of her awareness. Instinct told her that she was not alone, but her body wouldn't response to the garbled commands of her mind. Her limbs felt heavy. Her eyes wouldn't open…..

She drifted away from conscious thought once more….

* * *

The strange incident from earlier had Draco unusually jumpy. His instincts had never failed him before. He had always been able to rely on himself absolutely, ever since the Great War. The vague feelings of someone watching him, easily disregarded, had abruptly crystallized into a definitive warning. Someone _had _been standing right behind him. Of that Draco had no doubt.

He was so sure, in fact, that he immediately began casting spells to detect the intruder. So sure, that when the results were devoid of any evidence of trespassing he cast the spells again. So sure, that when the third casting returned the same answer, Draco began to question if his skills were up to standard. So he spent the next two hours patrolling the grounds the old fashioned way. After slinking around countless corners and hexing masses of mice, Draco was exhausted.

Not to mention lost.

"Perfect," Draco muttered. He found himself in a particularly decrepit area of the fortress. It was devoid of all the stylish trappings that littered the halls near the entrance. There were tattered tapestries adorning the walls every so often, but otherwise bereft of any material occupation. The light of his wand allowed him to see a few feet into the darkness. The sheer whiteness of the glow was beginning to hurt his eyes, however. He was a sitting duck if anyone decided to hop on over and bash him on the head.

What baffled him about the whole thing wasn't so much the reason why someone would decide to come onto the grounds. Any fool could see that there was wealth here beyond the average imagination. It was _how_. To get to the castle, one had to know where it was in the first place. The trail made it impossible to drive a Muggle vehicle up and the wards prevented Apparation. So how did whoever it was get there? How would a robber haul enough loot away to make the trip worthwhile?

It didn't make sense.

Draco came to the end of the corridor. The floor gave way to a set of long, winding stairs that looked like no one had stepped on them for centuries, judging by the undisturbed dirt. Curious, Draco slowly descended. He kept his guard up the entire time just in case. Cold air rose and enveloped his body. The air grew damp, and every time Draco exhaled his breath came out in white puffs. A cellar?

It was. Draco found himself in the biggest, coldest store room he had ever seen. Not that he'd been in all that many, being a Malfoy, but that was beside the point. He spotted a torch to his immediate left and quickly lit it, unable to stand the artificial glow of his wand any longer.

Barrels upon barrels upon sacks of long forgotten foodstuffs cluttered the place. Whatever had been inside had rotted away long ago, but the air had a faint smell of old wood and moldy cheese to it. It left a stale taste in Draco's mouth. He took a few cautious steps before drawing up short.

That prickly feeling had returned full force, making every hair on Draco's body stand up. His muscles tensed, his breathing shallowed. Heart pounding, Draco held himself perfectly still. The silence was thunderous, pressing close…

Something shifted.

In a flash Draco acted. He whirled around and flung the torch in the direction of the noise. He ducked to the floor to avoid any unfriendly spells and was in the midst of uttering the stunning charm when something rushed past him with unnatural speed, coming so close Draco would have sworn he had touched him. He tossed the charm at a different angle at the last second but missed. The thing rushed him again, this time from the entirely opposite direction of where it was supposed to have gone. The gust of wind created actually knocked Draco off balance-impossible seconds later whatever he was dealing with came from still another side!

Then all hell broke loose. Wave after wave of energy washed over Draco. It was like hundreds of voices suddenly raised up in raucous discord. He couldn't think, he couldn't see! He wanted to vomit. A heavy weight dropped itself onto his chest and sent him to the ground. What magic was this! He'd never dealt with anything like it before! The voices rose to a feverish pitch, so loud Draco covered his ears to block it. Nothing touched him, but his body screamed at him to make the abuse stop!

And just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Breathing hard, disoriented, Draco opened bewildered eyes that struggled to focus. What had just happened? What had just _happened_?

He stared into the eyes of a child.

A boy, no older than eight, stared down at him with teary eyes. He was covered in dirt, his hair was strangely wet, and his tattered old fashioned night shirt was spattered with mud. Draco surged up as quickly as his sapped strength let him. The child backed up, clearly terrified. "Wait," Draco croaked. "What did you do-"

The boy turned and ran--right through a stack of barrels.

Draco did vomit then. He heaved and sweated for what seemed like eternity before he found the will power to stand himself up. A ghost. He had just been attacked by a ghost. But this ghost wasn't anything like the ghosts at Hogwarts--not even Moaning Myrtle. They left you with a strange feeling, but nothing like the overwhelming sense that you were….dying. Yes, it had felt like he was dying, hearing the cries of all the others that were dying with him.

As undeniably shaken as Draco was, he found that he could not turn and run as instinct demanded. Instead he found himself lurching in uneven steps toward the barrels the child had gone through. Some unseen force pushed him, guided his steps, demanded that he go forward. Demanded to see exactly what lie behind those strangely arranged barrels. They stood in a perfect square, completely set apart from the stacks that held up the walls. Nothing touched them, and they touched nothing. An island in a vast storeroom with plenty of space.

Hiding something.

A quick muttered spell, a shattering of ancient wood. A door in the floor that creaked open ominously. A set of naturally formed steps. A cave….?

Dear gods, a mass grave.

The smell of dark death besieged Draco, who quickly covered his mouth and nose. The cavern was large, with a small lake of crystal clear water that allowed one to see down several feet to the bottom. The water flowed from a waterfall, creating a background noise that should have soothed him. The skeletons that littered the floor, however, captivated his attention.

Some still wore fragile bits of clothing that told their gender, whose size told Draco that no one had been spared. Men, women, and children intermingled with one another in silent turmoil, curled in obviously protective stances. The arrow shafts that jutted out of their bones told the stories of their gory demise.

What made Draco sick, however, was not the sight of so many murdered people. He had seen death before. It was the way which everyone lay. They were on their backs, hands still bound, knees bent. They had been kneeling before their captors…and executed.

At the edge of the water, in the muddiest part of the cave, Draco could make out the form of a woman lying over a child with scrapes of shirt still clinging to his shoulders.

At the forefront of all of these skeletons, guarding the mouth of a natural corridor that Draco had a feeling led to the outside, sat a chest. Black ebony, the eyes of the snakes carved over the lid glistened triumphantly in the water's flickering light. The young blonde knew what it was the moment he laid eyes on it. A conqueror gloating in his achievement even in death, Draco thought with sparkling anger. Interesting to know that Lucius' cruel streak was a family trait.

With heavy steps Draco descended the rest of the way. With heavy heart he approached the malevolent chest that seemed to whisper his name. The call of the Malfoy blood, which named certain traits that Draco had struggled to shed in the years after his school days. Long ago he realized he didn't want to follow Lucius' footsteps. Yet this chest mocked his conscious decision for moderation, to treat others as fairly as possible. This chest had been forged for the specific purpose of commending power, to be a symbol of what cruelty and absolutism can gain.

Aniston's last grab for glory.

* * *

In the coming years Draco would never be sure what happened next. Perhaps it was a random coagulation of the stars, the time, the day, the place. It could have been anything, so rare that it would not likely be repeated in his lifetime. All he knew was that one second he was reaching for the chest. 

The next he was in the cave lake.

It took one solid second for him to realize that he wasn't actually breathing anymore--which was good, because he was pretty sure he would have drowned. Not the most pleasant way to go, but definitely in keeping with the Aniston cursing him to death thing. But once he realized that he wasn't floating so much as sinking, Draco quickly propelled himself to the surface and life-giving air.

He heard a woman give a yell of surprise. "Hoppin' hogs' toes, lad! Are you alright!" The thick Scottish accent, coupled with obvious concern, lent her 'r's an extra roll.

"What the devil happened?" he sputtered. His hair had flopped over and plastered itself inelegantly over his eyes. "Devil take it," he growled. Treading water, he quickly swiped a hand to get it out of his way and a good look at his surroundings.

A woman stood on the edge of the cave lake, staring in wide eyed astonishment at the young man who had just plopped into her lake out of mid air. Draco took in the wild brown hair, brown eyes, and stubborn chin in seconds. His jaw dropped. "Hermione Granger!" he burst out. What in the hell was she doing here?

The girl frowned. In his shock Draco noted the pouty quality of her lips before he could stop himself. She shook her head at him. "You've got it wrong, lad. My given name is Hermione, but there's no Grangers around here." She looked wary now, casually easing back the closer he treaded. "Are you alright?" she repeated.

What was with the accent? Surely it hadn't been that long since he'd seen her. "Granger-" he bit out.

"You must have hit your head or something of the sort. I'm not this Granger person ye speak of," she cut in quickly, sweeping her skirt out of the way a bit. It was then that Draco noticed her dress. It was full, it was tight…..it had a corset.

He looked past her. No skeletons, no arrows….no chest.

As perverse as it sounded, this was not good.

"Umm…" he was starting to feel a little light headed. "What year is it?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You're English," she suddenly stated.

"Yes, I know that," Draco said with growing exasperation. "What I don't know is what year it is."

"I knew it! You hit your-"

"What year is it!" Draco finally shouted. Probably not good, what with him in the water and rapidly loosing strength. But this was getting scary, more so than the child ghost!

"1473!" she shouted back. She quickly clapped her hand over her mouth and glared at him over her fingers. It was clear she hadn't meant to raise her voice, and equally apparent that she blamed him entirely for it. Draco was a little busy right then, however, digesting incredible pieces of information.

The year 1473. In Scotland. Before Aniston had arrived to conquer the castle.

Oh, bugger.

End of Part I


	3. Part II

Disclaimer: Me no own nothing. Damnit.

**Part II**

He'd thought being cursed was bad. Having to travel to backwoods Scotland, far, far, _far _away from civilization had only defined his misery. Then he'd spent all those hours he would never get back among his ancestors' worthless treasures, convincing himself that _nothing _could be worse.

Oh, but he'd been wrong.

Draco's eyes traveled up the length of tempered metal currently held to his throat to the face of a seriously angry Highlander. None of what had come before, he thought to himself, could possibly compare to being thrown back 600 years into the Highlands where being English was _not a good thing to be_.

Especially if you wanted to keep breathing through your mouth and not a hole in your throat.

Perhaps losing his temper with the girl might not have been the best thing to do, but hindsight was 20-20, so Muggles said. He'd climbed out of the water (by himself, Merlin _forbid _that she help him! he thought sarcastically, casting the girl in question a dirty look) and watched as she stumbled away, eyeing him warily. The resemblance to Hermione Granger had been uncanny, like she'd decided to play dress up one day. He had looked at her, soaking wet, shivering, hungry, and all of a sudden extremely _pissed off_.

The stress of the seemingly fruitless search, his frustration at the curse, his despair at being chronically single, and his resentment at the knowledge that his fate was not in his own hands… All of it had rushed to the fore and crashed together inside of him to form a gigantic ball of fury. Words had begun to pour out of his mouth. In all honesty he couldn't remember half of the things he'd said, and the half he _did _remember wouldn't have made sense to anyone but him. Which explained why the Hermione doppelganger's eyes had gotten bigger and bigger with every word.

Back, back, back she'd gone. She'd made it halfway up the stairs, warning him to "Stay away, now. _Nice _madman….staaaaaayyyyy…." before she'd thrown caution to the wind and bolted. Draco had been after her like a shot, tearing through the cellar, up the second set of stairs, and down the hall that was now covered with new tapestries. He should have been able to catch her, but she was fast and he kept slipping on the puddles he made.

It occurred to him now that he could have used his wand, but hindsight and all that.

Anyway, he'd followed her for some minutes, passing a number of very startled people on his way. He hadn't really run into trouble until he'd skidded around the corner into the Great Hall. There she was….surrounded by a least a dozen of the tallest, broadest, ugliest buggers he'd ever seen. All of which were possessed of very big, very sharp swords.

Which led him to his current predicament.

"Er.." he began, his hand inching toward his wand. The Highlander saw the slight movement and pressed the blade _that _much closer. "Doona think about it, English," the man growled. It sounded like a water beating on a drum.

Draco changed the direction of his hand and lightly fingered the weapon. "Right, none of that." He tried to discretely push the sword away, but it was no good. "A little help here," he muttered to Hermione out of the corner of his mouth.

She kept trying to duck out from under the arm of a particularly protective Highlander. He was a tall boy barely out of his teens, with black hair and green eyes. There was a vague resemblance to Harry Potter, Draco realized, but not much. "Hermione," the boy said, trying to keep a steady hand on his sword while flailing an arm to block the girl out. "Stop that!"

"Conall," Hermione hissed. "Let me through before I wallop ye!"

The boy grunted when she stomped on his toe. "Why ye little-! First ye run from him like the devil was on yer heels, and now you want to go to him? What sense is that, girl?" He now had her back pressed to his front while she flailed.

"'Tis my own, and if ye know what's good for ye-"

"What-" a smooth voice broke in- "is going on here?" As one the group turned back to Great Hall's entrance. Even Draco could not prevent his eyes from seeking out the owner of that commanding voice. It possessed a quality to it that arrested him completely, a quiet confidence and authority that brought out the latent soldier in him. He managed to turn his head just so without skewering himself. And couldn't believe his eyes.

An exact copy of the Hermione doppelganger (a copy of a copy?) stood in the doorway. Unlike the Hermione he'd met first, this one possessed the bearing of royalty. Brown orbs were cool and calculating as they swept over the crowd to him. She missed nothing. He had the uncanny feeling that she was looking into his soul rather than his eyes. "Well, well, we _have _traveled far, haven't we?" she murmured. She'd come around so that he didn't have to strain himself to watch her. She came to a stop next to the one called Conall, folding her arms over her stomach.

Her very large stomach.

This Hermione look alike was heavily pregnant. In fact, she looked like she was about to give birth at any minute, Draco thought to himself. But that wasn't as important as the fact that she seemed to know all about his little detour through time. "Who are you?" he demanded. It came out rudely, but he didn't have time for social niceties at the moment. The woman merely arched a brow at his manner. "I am Lady Hannah," she stated crisply. "That," she pointed at the still-captive girl- "is my sister Hermione. The Lady of the Keep, and you'd best remember that. Lower your swords," she ordered the men. For a moment Draco was sure they would ignore her and run him through, but they did as she asked.

He rubbed the sore spot on his throat and grunted. "_She's _the lady here? You must not have very high standards." Hermione gasped in outrage. She made to go at him again, but Conall restrained her. "I'll show you standards, ye crazed Englishman!"

"It's easy to be brave when you're surrounded by sword-carrying Berserkers, hmm, Granger?"

"For the last time, I'm not this Granger person-"

The one called Hannah clapped her hands briskly. "Everyone in this hall will leave. Now." Said everyone obeyed, reaffirming Draco's opinion that a serious change in management needed to occur. Hannah had the command of a woman, and this Hermione had the staying power of a mere girl. He was vaguely amused when a whispered discussion occurred between Conall and Hermione. It was obvious the boy didn't want to leave by the suspicious looks he kept casting Draco, but in the end he had no choice. Draco barely restrained the urge to flip him off when Conall stalked past.

Hannah walked, or waddled rather, to the nearest bench and sat upon it heavily. She sighed as though the world had been lifted off of her shoulders. Then she fixed him with a long, measuring look. "Tell me your name."

Draco wasn't sure he appreciated the commanding tone, but decided to give in anyway. Just this once. "I'm Draco-" was his surname going to get him killed? He wasn't sure. "--of nowhere." Well, wasn't that a _brilliant _save? He resisted the urge to slap himself. Really, couldn't he have thought of anything better?

Hannah laughed. It wasn't unpleasant, but it set Draco on edge nonetheless. There was this steely quality to it that refused to go unnoticed. His mother had had that quality, and she certainly had been nobody's fool. "Draco of Nowhere. I like it." She shifted to the side to make room for her sister to sit. Hermione plunked down with all the grace of a four year old, Draco noted with a snicker. He decided that it did him no good to continue standing like an idiot. He chose to seat himself on the bench to the twins' left, keeping both them and the door in his sight. No more swords at _his _throat.

This Great Hall wasn't significantly larger than the one at his old school, yet it lacked the same cozy feel. It felt larger, if that made any sense. Maybe it was the lack of candles on the ceiling. It was set up similarly, with rows upon rows of tables. There were tapestries on the walls and a shaggy rug thrown here and there to cover the floor. The men had been in the middle of eating when he'd made his unorthodox entrance. Eyeing the meat on the center dish, Draco tried to decide if he was hungry enough to risk the germs. In the end his stomach won the argument. He reached out and gingerly broke off a bit of meat. What was this, pork? He sniffed it.

The twins looked at each other. "Nobleman," they said in unison. Draco just grunted and stuffed the meat in his mouth before he could think the better of it. He chewed as fast as he could while he took in details that he'd missed.

Side by side, the differences in the twins were hard to miss. Physically they were identical (Hannah's pregnancy notwithstanding) from curly brown head to little tapping toes. It was the little things that set them apart. Hannah wore her hair in a perfectly coiffed bun, while Hermione's flowed willy-nilly down her back in frizzy disarray. Hannah followed every move he made like a hawk. Her gaze was much sharper, calculating everything she saw with a cunning light in her eye. Cynical, Draco decided. Worldly wise.

Hermione, however, was much softer in form and aura. Even as she glared at him, her lips set in a mutinous pout, her eyes were much softer. She couldn't really hate anyone if she tried, Draco thought. Severely dislike, yes. Hate, no. It just wasn't in her, even six centuries in the past. His eyes drifted to their hands. They were clasped tightly between their bodies, though neither seemed aware of it They were obviously close. But then, he supposed twins were like that.

Of the two, Hannah was seemed to be more intelligent. More Granger-like. Definitely more courage, he thought to himself with a snort. But why _did _they look so much like Hermione Granger? And why did neither seem to be all surprised by his unconventional arrival? The Middle Ages had hardly been an understanding time. If this had been a normal household, he should have been tied to the first stake they saw by now. Something wasn't ringing right.

He decided to test the waters. "Why did you say that?" he asked Hannah. "About traveling?"

Hannah's lips quirked. He experienced that same soul-searching feeling again. "Magic existed long before your time, Draco of Nowhere. Even in Scotland." She turned to her sister. "He'll be here for a few days, Hermione. Best to get him settled in."

Hermione looked surprised, but not more so than Draco. "You trust him?"

Hannah shrugged. Draco did not find that at all comforting. "He poses no threat to us," she said instead. He saw her squeeze Hermione's hand. "You'll be fine."

Hermione was clearly struggling with herself. Should she or shouldn't she? Yet Hannah had told her it was all right, and Hannah's word was law in these subjects. She stood abruptly. "Come along, then." She strode out of the hall without looking to see if he had followed. Draco looked at Hannah questioningly. "You'd better go," she advised. "She's devilishly fast."

Remembering Hermione's earlier flight, Draco decided it was more prudent to go than stay.

It was amazing how much the castle had changed. It was warmer now. People were rushing everywhere through halls that were now devoid of the hodgepodge of treasure. Tasteful tapestries and the occasional bit of furniture now decorated the walkways. The courtyard that had once lay silent was now brimming with people attending to everyday life. As a matter of fact, Draco had never seen so many people living in the same place at one time. It rather dazed him to realize that every single one was needed to keep the castle going. No house elves here. It was mind boggling.

He and Hermione went through hall after hall after hall in complete silence, which frankly disturbed him. She didn't seem like the type to keep quiet. Shouldn't she be hurling insults his way? How did she even move in that outfit anyway? She should have been passing out from lack of air. "I'm losing my mind," he muttered.

"I believe it's already gone," Hermione returned without pause.

Ah, there was that spark he'd been waiting for. Some proof that this was indeed an earlier version of Granger. Was she an ancestor? Clearly not a direct one, that would have to go to Hannah, but still. And that reminded him… "Why isn't Hannah the lady of the keep?" He didn't like the way she was looking straight ahead, attempting to ignore him.

"I am the first born," she said shortly. Her voice was strained. It was obviously a sore subject.

He snorted. "Pity. She seems much more suited for the job." He brushed his wet hair out of his eyes, ignoring the strange looks he was getting. It must be his clothes, he decided. That, or his remarkable good looks.

"And what are ye meanin' by that?" Her accent got thicker when she was annoyed, he noticed. He shrugged despite the fact he knew she couldn't see him. "She's obviously nobody's fool. Sharp. Doesn't seem to trust anybody farther than she could throw them. She wouldn't wander around the castle whenever the mood suited her. No, she'd maintain complete control over everything around her. Much more sensible, tougher even-"

Hermione swung around before he could finish his sentence. One hand shoved him backward until he hit the wall, catching him by surprise. Her face came dangerously close to his. She had to stand on her tippy toes to do it, but he could clearly see the fierce light burning in her eyes. He opened his mouth to snarl at her. "Hannah's husband is dead," she ground out.

That shut him up.

"She loved him from the first moment they met when we were thirteen and he a year older. She loved him, wed him, and lived with him in happiness until his _best friend _stabbed him in the back in jealousy. My Hannah was shattered, but put herself back together for the babe that will never know its father. She is harder, colder. Ye think that those qualities make a better leader. _I_ think that the cost to refine those characteristics is too high." She backed off abruptly and turned away. "Much too high."

_Well, I'll be damned_, Draco thought as she once again walked away from him. This one was more like Granger after all.

The next two days passed by too fast. He'd begun by spending most of his time searching for something, anything that would give him a clue what Aniston was looking for. Draco had always taken books for granted in school, always certain that all he needed was to pick up the right tome and the answers he sought would be there. In 1473, libraries like the one at Hogwarts were a fantastic dream. Draco quickly discovered that books were a precious commodity in this era, reserved only for the disgustingly rich. Even then they were in small quantities. The printing press had yet to be invented, meaning each book was hand scribed and ridiculously expensive.

Hermione and Hannah possessed a total of three books, kept under lock and key, and that was regarded with awe by their contemporaries.

He found himself trying to glean information from servants, which was awkward. He'd never really spoken to a servant before and had struggled for words most of the time. Thanks to a pretty little chatterbox named Magda (who was far too young for him, sadly), he had managed to learn a few things about the era.

Firstly, men's clothing was utterly ridiculous. He'd been walking around in a pair of pants (trews, they called them here) that were made up of red and black plaid material. It had been either that or wear a plaid, and Draco Malfoy showed off his bare legs to no one but his woman. Which was to say none one, period, at this point.

Secondly, Aniston Malfoy was very, very well known, and very, VERY disliked. Not much had changed in six hundred years. Magda had informed him that Scotland's new king, James III, had become so focused on territorial expansion that he'd even married a princess for two islands. He wanted an alliance with England so badly that he was rumored to be betrothing children he'd yet to father to England's king. As it was, James ignored justice administration at home. He turned a blind eye to more than one English faux pas in an effort to garner favor from everyone but his own people.

Aniston was taking advantage.

No one, thank the gods, had seen Aniston personally, but his reputation as a marauder in Englishman's clothing was ironclad. He was moving ever closer, and Magda could only wonder what he was doing the Highlands. Draco refrained from enlightening her. It turned out that the only real source he had were the twins themselves. So he watched and waited…and learned.

He'd soon discovered that Hannah's foray into the Great Hall was rare indeed. She spent her time in what they called her sitting room, sewing or embroidering or whatever women did with their time. At least, that's what they said she did. Draco usually found her staring out the window whenever he peeked in, her projects lying forgotten in her lap. It was a sad scene, one that even effected Draco. He began to realize that his romantic troubles paled in comparison. No, he'd not found the One for him yet….but he hadn't lost her to Death's cold embrace, either.

Hermione….now, there was a surprise. At first it had appeared that she was flitting aimlessly about the castle, talking to everyone at random. Once he had really begun to listen, Draco quickly realized that Hermione was indeed a skilled taskmaster. She embedded her orders in suggestion, drawing her people closer rather than allowing her exalted position to alienate them. She really was rather young, he realized, but no one seemed to be bothered by it. They treated her like a daughter.

He noticed that she always made sure to pass Hannah's room several times. She would poke her head in and say hello, or offer a flower, or tell a story that would bring a smile to Hannah's lips. She was clearly devoted to her sister, and Draco found himself experiencing rare shame for what he had said that first night. Hermione was a capable, caring leader, not the flighty coward he had originally thought.

He needed to apologize. Maybe then he could finally get some of the answers he come back six hundred years for.

He found her in the garden.

It was her own private section of the land, one that most would have missed if they hadn't been looking for it specifically. Magda had had to give him directions twice because it was so well hidden among the outbuildings. A little patch of earth hidden by civilization. It wasn't very big. Barely eleven square feet, in fact. But it was bursting with every plant imaginable, herb and flower alike. Draco was a bit impressed as he approached the fencing. Snape would have had a field day, he thought to himself. He leaned against the wood and searched her out among the wildlife. It stood so tall that it took a moment to spot her brown hair. "Hermione," he called.

Brown eyes appeared over a bush. Draco found himself strangely arrested by them. It was the same feeling he got when Hannah was doing her soul-searching thing. Funny, it felt much more pleasant with Hermione somehow. He cleared his throat nervously. "I, uh-" _Come on, Malfoy! Get yourself together. You manage a multi-million galleon company. _Surely _you can speak to one lone girl…_

Right. Deep breath. "I was wondering if I could talk to you."

An eyebrow quirked. "You're talking to me now," she observed. Draco managed to stifle the groan of frustration that threatened to emerge. "Can I come inside?"

"Aye." With that, she disappeared among the blooms once more. He managed to find her minutes later, examining each flower and muttering to herself. "Nay, that won't do. The petals aren't quite the right shade…." He crouched beside her and observed.

It finally hit him what she was doing. "Are you gathering supplies for your potions?" Why hadn't he seen this before? Hermione had always been drawn to the precision required in potion-making, despite her aptitude for charms. It would explain why she never used magic in front of him. _She didn't need a wand to accomplish her brand of magic._ Unaware of his astonishment, Hermione shrugged delicate shoulders. "It is where my talent lies," she answered. "Hannah can do bigger things. Once she set Conall's shoes on fire when he wouldn't give her doll back. I can't even manage sparks." For a moment she looked mournful, but it soon passed and she returned to her task. "Was there something-?"

"I'm sorry."

She paused in the middle of plucking a new flower to blink owlishly at him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I thought I heard ye just apologize to me."

"I did." He was looking everywhere but at her. "I was wrong. You're very good at leading your people."

"Well, I--um, that is to say---Thank you," she finished in a rush. A blush crept up her pretty cheeks and stained her neck. Draco was amazed to admit to himself that Hermione was actually…quite attractive.

She busied herself with anything she could find, but Draco found he was in no hurry to leave. Instead he leaned back against the fence and watched her idly. Time passed in surprising comfort, with no need to fill up the moments with conversation.

She really was like Granger. Looks aside, their personalities were virtually the same. In school Granger had driven him crazy with her eager attitude. He had been unable to fathom why anyone would actually _want _to be helpful, or loyal, or even caring. Those had been troubled, depressing years, and Draco could now view his teenage self objectively. He'd been struggling with the hand he'd been given, a strange childhood that had handicapped him in many ways. But nothing had held him back more than his own choices. He _could _have tried to understand the other side of his father's arguments, or been a little less loud in his opinions.

Older, and hopefully wiser, Draco found the same qualities that had driven him mad as a teenager were captivating him as a man. He kept experiencing the urge to talk to her, yet at the same time content to just watch her.

Why had it taken six hundred years for him to warm up to her? Would he have done the same if he and the Hermione he knew had met in his time? Draco wasn't really sure. All he really knew was that for the first time in a very long time, Draco Malfoy was content to spend time with a pretty woman in silence.

To be continued….


	4. Part III

Disclaimer: All hail the great JKR! She owns all of these characters except Hannah and Aniston.

**Part III**

For the next half hour neither spoke. Hermione concentrated solely on her work, and Draco…well, Draco was enjoying the moment. He leaned his back against the little fence and closed his eyes. The sun washed over him warmly, and the breeze tugged playfully at his white linen shirt while it brought him the sweet smells of nature. It was a beautiful spring day. Even in the walled courtyard there was grass so green it defied further description. Birds chirped while they flew lazily in the sky above, hoping to catch something Draco couldn't see. When was the last time he had enjoyed Nature like this? No board meetings, no crowds, no curse, no messenger owls, just him and the plants and the open air?

He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember the last time he had been on a broom just to fly, or the last time he had spent one whole day on himself. Draco couldn't even really remember what it was like to laugh anymore.

When had he become so unhappy?

This was a world far removed from the one he knew, not just in time but in rhythm. Things went slower here. Everyone took their time to enjoy themselves, because here death came more swiftly than in Draco's world. Life was harder, and people aged faster because of it. The men and women here talked. They communicated in words and gestures. In the evening crowds gathered in the Great Hall for games and company, and Draco could see the camaraderie clearly. They were more connected to each other than Draco had ever felt with his entire family. Draco wanted to know what it felt like to be part of something like that. Part of a community. Part of a real family. Part of a world that somehow managed to breathe deep even in the face of life's hardships, if only for a moment.

So he did. He inhaled, held the new air deep in his lungs, and then exhaled, letting the old worries and pain go with it. There was no curse, no obligations, no heartache. Just him and nature and Hermione.

Even if it _was _just for a moment.

* * *

He looked at ease, Hermione thought to herself, sneaking looks at the stranger in her garden. For the first time since he'd arrived he acted as though all was right in the world.

Hermione was no fool, despite what many people thought. She'd known that this man was not of this place, and she wasn't talking about Scotland, either. It was obvious in every move he made, every curious look he cast, the clothes he'd arrived in. Heavens, in the _way _he'd arrived! The water below the castle held more secrets than she'd been privy to, it seemed.

She regarded him, making no attempt to hide her assessment. Never mind that he wasn't looking at her. He seemed lost in the birdsongs that drifted to them. He was really very handsome. He reminded her of a poet, or a minstrel. The oversized shirt and trews belonged on that athletic body. They accented his trim hips and tightly muscled chest, which peeked through the loosened threads of the v-neck. He had a roguish look about him, though. His hair had was shaggy yet, strangely enough, structured. If she hadn't known better, Hermione might have suspected that he _wanted _his hair to look like that.

He had a silver band in his left ear. Hermione had heard of the practice of piercing one's ears, but never on a man. In only one ear, no less. It was small, but clearly visible. It certainly flaunted convention. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd gotten the band for that very reason. He didn't strike her as someone who wanted to blend in with the rest of mankind. He held himself with too much confidence, obviously at ease with being the center of attention.

The embodiment of a lover, Hermione decided. He was very good at projecting the image. Anyone else might have been fooled. But Hermione was not everyone else. She could clearly see the iron will, the strength, and the cold glint in his eyes that bespoke of experience in the art of war. This man could switch from lover to fighter in the blink of an eye.

He was dangerous, no matter what Hannah said. And Hermione was tired of games. She stabbed her cutting knife into the dirt and stood swiftly. The stranger started out of his reverie, grey-blue eyes instantly focusing on her. Hermione disregarded his surprise and got to the heart of the matter. "Why are you here?"

His brow furrowed. "I told you, I came to apologize-"

Hermione shook her head. "Not my garden, Stranger. Why are you _here_, at the castle? In Scotland? _In this time_?" Her eyes connected with his, delving in to discover his secrets. Draco felt locked into those brown depths, but felt no urge to pull away. "What are you looking for?" she demanded.

Draco straightened away from the fence, awareness vibrating through his body. _She knew_. She knew he was here for a reason. The silence that had been so comfortable a moment ago grew tense. Hermione didn't move away when he took a step forward. In fact, she didn't seem at all intimidated by the scowl he leveled at her. "What makes you think I'm looking for anything?" he asked, stalling his answer.

She raised her eyebrow. "Where do you think your clothes came from? Your meals?"

"Madga-" he stopped.

"And who," she asked haughtily, "do you think sent Magda to you?"

Realization dawned. "You've been spying on me," he said, a note of wonder in his voice. He looked at her with new respect.

"Of course," Hermione snorted. Really, did he think she would just let a complete stranger have run of the castle without taking any precautions? "Ye didn't answer my question, Stranger."

He tried to look her in the eye when he answered. He really did! But his eyes kept slipping down her face to settle at her collarbone. A warm blush crept up his neck as he struggled with words. "I don't know," he ground out. Why was this so hard for him? He'd faced down Death Eaters and corporate raiders. Why was talking to this girl so much more difficult? "I don't know what I'm looking for. I didn't intentionally come here, and frankly, I'm not even sure how it happened." He finally managed to make eye contact with her. "All I do know is that the key to getting home and getting on with my life is here somewhere."

Hermione let the words flow over her, focusing in on his eyes. It didn't matter what he said. What mattered was the emotion behind it. She could see the struggle for composure in the way his eyes flickered when he spoke. He was angry, but not with her. He acted like a man whose destiny had been wrestled out of his hands, and he was enraged by it. He was telling her the truth.

She knew, however, that he hadn't told her everything. There was enough sincerity in his manner that she would let the matter rest for now. "Do you know anything about potions, Stranger?"

The abrupt change in subject threw him. He eyed her warily. "I know enough," he admitted cautiously. Hermione nodded and turned to crouch in front of a patch of lavender. "Then stop lazing about and help me," she tossed over her shoulder. She grabbed her knife again and set to her task.

For a moment Draco didn't move. That was it? He stared at the back of her head in bewilderment. That was the extent of her questioning? "That's all you're going to say! 'Help me'?" He marched up to her and shuffled until he could see her profile. She didn't look at him once. "Was there aught else you wanted to tell me?" she asked serenely.

He put his hands on his hips in consternation. "Well, no."

"Then you'll find another knife in the basket to your left."

Well, wasn't that a kick in the trousers? Draco couldn't decide if she was crazy or just plain stupid, and told her so. It earned him nothing more than a quick smile and another order to lend a hand. Draco complied, frankly not sure what else to do. He knelt in the dirt on the other side of her row and began to cut. Once he got over the fact that he was actually doing manual labor for perhaps the second time in his entire life, Draco found himself relaxing. The smell of the earth on his hands was actually very soothing. "Where did you learn about potions?" he asked idly.

"My father. He loved working in the garden, studying each plant and developing new uses for them. My mother had no special aptitude for magic, but had the gift of foresight. Hannah learned all she knows from my father's mother. Why so curious, Stranger?"

"Why do you call me Stranger?"

"It's what you are, is it not?"

"But you say it like it's my name. You _can _call me Draco, you know."

"I can…but I will not."

It didn't seem to matter what era he met this woman in, Draco realized. She would always be the most stubborn woman he had ever met! "Why?" he asked, frustration building. Really, was his name that hard to say?

"I don't know you."

"But you'll let me stay here in your home? That doesn't make sense." He smirked. "One might call it foolish, even."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "Would you rather I tossed you out into the world, then? Or perhaps I should allow Conall to follow through with his plan and have you locked up in a room for the rest of your days."

Draco had seen the looks Conall had been throwing him the last two days. He was sure Conall would be thrilled to have him out of the way. "I'm quite comfy in my present room, thanks. But that still doesn't answer my question."

"You are here because Hannah says that you pose no threat. I trust her judgment."

"If I'm harmless, then surely using my given name will be no hardship." There, he thought. Counter that logic! He of course was studiously ignoring the fact that there was very little logic in the entire argument.

"Not a hardship, but still not proper."

"I hate you," he told her.

"I know."

* * *

_Draco. _She liked his name. She'd only said it aloud in the privacy of her room. It felt intimate somehow. Much too private to say in the light of day for all to hear. This man, for reasons she couldn't fathom, made her heart beat just a little bit faster, her mind fog, and her thoughts slow. Hermione snorted to herself. Even when he was soaking wet and hell bent on running her down like a wee rabbit. Och, but her panicked flight had been embarrassing! But then, how often did men literally fall from the sky?

And he was special, like them. He had that same quality in his aura that Hannah did, an indefinable something that set those with magic apart from those without it. She didn't have to hide from him. Hermione's lashes lowered while she absently petted a leaf. She was really very lucky, she told herself. Her people were fully aware of what she and Hannah were. Many of their families had been serving hers since before the castle had come to be. But the outside world…..

Their father had once taken them to a fair. They had been six years old, truly excited at the possibilities. But they had been separated from their father for a few moments too long. People had cringed away for the two little girls who were identical in every way. "_The Devil's children!" _villagers had hissed. They'd crossed themselves in fear. "_The same face! Not normal. Black magic. Not a soul betwixt the two. Get away from me, spawn!"_

Hermione shook her head to get rid of the memories. Shunned by the outside world for something they had been born with…and those people had barely scratched the surface. What might of happened if their father hadn't found them? If Hannah had lashed out and set something else on fire by accident?

"Are you alright?" the man, Draco, asked abruptly. Hermione started, looking down to realize that she'd crushed the bloom in her hand. She tossed it away with a sigh. "I'm fine." She needed a distraction. "Tell me about this Granger person." Maybe that would turn her thoughts to lighter subjects. She moved her basket to her left and shifted over to the next row that needed her attention.

Draco casually picked a flower and fiddled with the petals. "Hermione Granger." He let one of the petals drift away on the wind. "I went to school with her. They called her the smartest witch of our age, which was true. Which made me crazy," he chuckled ruefully. "Which made picking on her my number one priority." He looked up, his smile fading at the look on her face. It was a mixture of desperate hope and disbelief. "What?"

"School."

Why was that the one word she focused on? His brow furrowed in confusion. "Yes, school. Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's one of the best in the world." Before he'd finished speaking Hermione had surged to her feet and was coming at him so rapidly her skirts kicked up. He straightened up, unsure of what to do. She came to a skidding halt before him, but didn't stay still. She moved back and forth like an agitated cat. She still had a small bouquet in her hand and now used it to point at him.

"You. _You _went to a _school _for people like _us_. Like you and me. And there's more than one."

Draco nodded. "Yes. There are schools in France, Brazil, Bulgaria- Would you stop waving that thing at me?" He batted the bouquet away in annoyance. She backed off obediently, and stood wringing the stems as if her life depended on it. "Do they- do they truly allow girls into these schools?" she asked. Her eyes were fixed on his right shoulder.

Understanding dawned. This Hermione lived in a time when women were rarely taught to read, much less invited to higher education. The concept of Hermione Granger, in any form, barred from learning and perhaps even the written word, was dumbfounding. He looked at her with a touch of sympathy. It must have been slowly killing Hermione all of her life. He gently removed the mangled plants from her death grip and tossed it aside. "Not only are they allowed, women teach at these schools," he said, forcing a cheerful note into his voice. "There is this one professor that was the bane of my school existence. Her name was Minerva McGonagall….."

* * *

He talked for over an hour. She listened with rapt attention, drinking in every word and savoring it. Draco followed her as they culled row after row. By the time they were finished the sun was setting, casting the castle in warm shadows that held none of the malice that Draco had grown used to. Both of Hermione's baskets were overflowing. Draco reached down and took one, trying to ignore how right it felt to do something nice for her. They walked slowly back to the side door, unaware of the many eyes peeking at them through the windows.

"Ye say that every magical child receives a letter of invitation when they are ten and one," Hermione said, shifting her basket from one hand to the other.

Draco assumed that meant eleven years old. "I'm pretty certain that's how it works."

Hermione's brow furrowed in thought. "But if that's true…then…why didn't Hannah or I receive such a letter?" There was genuine hurt in her eyes. It was the million galleon question, wasn't it? Draco swallowed hard. "I, uh-" Damnit, where had that loquacious lothario he'd been last week gone? "I don't know," he admitted sheepishly. He wanted to give her an answer that wouldn't make her look like that. Like he'd crushed her hopes beneath his heel.

"Maybe I'm not good enough," she said sadly. "Hannah's the talented twin."

"That's not true, Hermione." Why was he defending her? He'd never liked this girl, or rather her descendent. _Oh, grow up_, he snapped at himself. _Stop letting the idiot teenager within do the talking_. He swung around until he faced her. She nearly ran into him, but managed to stop before she smashed her little nose in his chest. She looked up in surprise when he poked her shoulder.

"Now see here, Hermione. So what if you didn't receive a letter? So what if you're a Squib? So what if Hannah can make things fly or catch on fire or do a jig? _You _are smart enough to complete dozens of potions from mere memory alone. _You _can take care of a castle, your sister, and any stranger that happens to pop out of thin air without breaking a sweat! And you're crazy if you think that flashy tricks make someone better than you." He fisted one hand on his hip and glared. "I don't know why some bloody school didn't send you a letter, but I do know that they made a very big mistake."

Her mouth was open. She knew it, but she couldn't seem to gather enough thought together to close it. Draco grunted, having said his peace and trying not to be to embarrassed about the sappier parts. "Now let's get this inside and get something to eat. I'm starving." He spun on his heel and jerked the door opening, leaving _her _behind for once. Still outside, a slow smile spread over Hermione's face, growing until she practically beamed. Her eyes drifted up to the window she 'knew' Hannah was watching from. "Men and their stomachs," she chuckled before hurrying after him.

* * *

Hannah smiled as she turned away, gradually making her way down the hall. Ugh, this babe would be the death of her yet! Every day she got slower and slower. She grimaced and rubbed her back, thinking about all the other troubles that came with pregnancy. "Little blighter," she said affectionately, this time rubbing her protruding belly. "I canna wait for you to get here."

The baby kicked enthusiastically, startling a laugh out of her. "Aye, I'm sure you're tired of that too little space as well." A memory darted across her mind, dimming her smile considerably. "Your father wasn't much for closed in places, either." She sniffed, but quickly dashed away the tears that moisten her eyes. "None of that now, Hannah."

It was the happiness she'd glimpsed in Hermione's face that had made her so melancholy. She'd watched her twin smile and laugh for the better part of an hour, completely enthralled with the stranger's words. Hannah had found herself drifting back down memory lane, when she and Duncan had first wed. A thousand years ago, it seemed.

Hermione and this stranger were connected. Hannah 'knew' this deep inside. Connected how, she wasn't sure, but she suspected that Draco of Nowhere was here for a reason other than the one that lurked in his soul. If she didn't know any better, she thought with a smirk, she would think that Hermione and Draco were meant to fall in love.

_To be continued…..

* * *

_

**Author's Notes:**

I feel compelled to point out that if I had been completely historically accurate with this fic, then Draco and Hermione would not actually be able to communicate. I've landed Draco in a time where Scots frankly found it distasteful to speak English at all. Had he had the good luck to actually find someone willing to talk to him, poor Draco would have had to listen to Old English. We're talking pre-Shakespeare, people. And we all know how bloody hard it is to read one of his works in its unedited entirety.

Yeah, Draco would have been a dead duck.

So in the interest of keeping my hero alive and relatively well, not to mention get this story rolling, I've waved my literary wand around and _voila_! Instant translations.

Before I sign off and run over to my other fics, I want to extend my thanks to Lorett, Sage, kafeist, firewall, FreakWave, all the members of the Three Keys, and every blessed person whose reviewed this story. Love ya, fellas!


	5. Part IV

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter characters. I just play and pretend for awhile._

Part IV

**England, present day**

Hermione Granger sat back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. Sighing, she slumped and contemplated the mountains of texts before her. There were times, she thought to herself, when school sucked.

Yes, it was a radical thought for such an avid learner, but over the years Hermione had reached the conclusion that there was a difference in school and learning. In her Hogwarts' years she had wanted to learn everything about the magical world she could. Well, except Divination, and she'd been able to get herself out of that one. So Hermione had never really experienced difficulty focusing on her studies.

It wasn't until she'd decided to attend Muggle university to further explore her love of all things history that Hermione had first come upon the fine line between schooling and learning. Learning, she had discovered, was a wonderful thing that allowed you all the time in the world to examine and analyze and soak up information about your passion. School was an institution that compelled you to divert your attentions to things that you _didn't _want to learn. All for the sake of getting to the thing you _did _want to learn about!

Which led her to her current position. Hermione glared at the never-diminishing pile of homework she had no interest in. If she had to write _one _more, just _one more_, essay about protons or electrons, she was going to hex somebody. Honest to Merlin, she'd do it! She was 25 years old, and the way she saw it, there wasn't any single way she could cram all the things she wanted to learn about into her lifetime. So why, why was school wasting her precious time on things she cared nothing about?

She should be downstairs, enjoying time with her family. They had come to her grandmother's home in anticipation of the yearly Granger reunion. Her parents, her aunts, her uncles, cousins, cousins' significant others, cousins' children, everybody was here and having a good time. Except Hermione. She had received last minute's notice that her professor had pushed up the due date for her essay. Hermione was damned before she would miss her family conference, which meant she had had to take her work with her. So here she was, sitting in her grandmother's attic, feverishly working away on an old desk in hopes of finishing in time to join in the fun.

Hermione glanced around longingly. Really, she could have chosen a better place to do it in. It was torture sitting among this treasure trove of Granger memorabilia and not be able to get up and look at any of it. Grandmama's house had been built in the 1800s, and as such possessed an attic that was a History student's dream. Trunks Hermione had never been allowed near before called to her silently, begging her to open them all and find out what was inside. Years upon years of Granger family memories were here, and Hermione was compelled to look but keep her hands to herself.

This was what she got for reenrolling in school, Hermione thought. She could have stayed in her nice little Magical job as an employee at the Ministry But no, she had to want more. She'd decided being valued as a war hero wasn't enough. Hermione had seen firsthand how quickly life could end. She'd been overcome with the insatiable desire to complete all the things on the 'Life Goals List' she'd made at the age of ten. She'd quit her job and started on number one, 'Get a degree in History'.

She was getting a degree all right, but she was also getting a headache and twitchy fingers from the urge to run her hands over the dust covered trunks. Butterball, she noted with a jealous glance, was not helping one bit.

One of dear Crookshanks' many descendents (the beloved cat had since passed away) Butterball was a massive confection of gray fur that looked as though he rolled in a dust bin all day. Considering how fat he was (he ate everything, period), Hermione highly doubted Butterball could actually roll without hurting himself. But she loved him, even when he managed to bestir himself long enough to torment her.

Such as now, when he stretched and extended his claws, making as though he would scratch the trunk he'd scrabbled up on. "Don't even think about it," Hermione warned, giving Butter a look that promised death. Butterball smirked his little cat smirk and went on, lazily prowling over the multitude of things piled in the attic. There were times, Hermione thought to herself, that she wondered if she shouldn't have named that cat Malfoy in honor of the King of Smirks.

She hadn't seen that boy…well, man now…in years. Not since the end of the war. He'd become wrapped up in the high and fast life that came with the managing of the Malfoy fortune, last she'd heard. Hermione didn't envy him. There was a lot to be said for being poor and anonymous. At least she only had her parents worrying over her single state. Malfoy had most of the Wizarding world monitoring him.

A crash jerked her out of her thoughts. "Butterball!" she cried, leaping from her seat. It took a moment to find him. He'd managed to get pretty far into the attic, almost to the back wall. No one ever went back there, given the extreme lack of light. Hermione had to pull out her wand in order to see what she was doing. When she did find him, Butterball was sitting on a trunk trying to look as innocent as possible. On the floor were several flimsy boxes, clothes from perhaps the seventies spilling out. "Blasted cat's a menace," Hermione muttered. Butterball looked offended, but he perked up when she ruffled his fur affectionately. He purred loud enough for the floorboards to shake and then sauntered off, leaving Hermione to clean up his mess.

Hermione bent and tried to collect as much as she could neatly. When she picked up the overturned cardboard box, however, she realized that there was something other than clothes inside. She stared at the small box, cardboard in hand. What in the world…?

She bent down and picked it up off of its side. "Beautiful," she whispered.

It was old, much older than the house, if she wasn't mistaken. It was made from a sturdy wood that defied the ages, with two rings for handles attached to the sides. Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the lid, however. On it was a fantastically realistic carving of a rose. It was so intricately made that Hermione was afraid to run her fingers over it. It was the heart of the rose that held her attention, however. A single, perfectly rounded moss agate glowed at her from the whorls of wooden petals. What an odd choice for a center, she thought to herself. She had learned once in her Hogwarts' days that moss agates helped people let go of anger and bitterness, balancing his or her emotions. Why would someone choose it as a center for a rose, the symbol of love?

Still not touching it beyond the rings, Hermione looked for a way to open the chest. Her homework was forgotten. Her entire attention could not, would not leave this entrancing object. Hermione couldn't say what drew her to it. She just knew that she couldn't put it down until she knew what was inside. It went beyond normal academic interest--it was a _necessity_.

There was no lock that she could see. For all intents and purposes, this object was made of one solid block of wood. But Hermione just knew that it wasn't. There was a way to open it; she just had to find it…

After a quarter hour of examining, cursing, and casting opening charms that sort of fizzled out mysteriously when they hit the wood, Hermione sat back and huffed. She had no idea how a magical object had made its way into her grandmother's attic, but it was beginning to irritate her. It was extremely powerful. More powerful than much she had come across. So how, she thought angrily, did she open the sodding thing?

She tapped her chin in thought, her eyes on the agate. Taptaptaptaptap…tap… tap…tap… No, she thought, eyes widening. Surely it wasn't that easy! Cautiously she reached out, one finger extended. It hesitated before making contact with the stone's smooth surface. "Here goes nothing," she said.

She pressed the agate.

Power shot up her arm like an electric shock, making her hair almost stand on end! Hermione gasped as she was suddenly enveloped in a warm cocoon that felt like a hundred arms hugging her closely. She felt soothed, yet strangely restless, wanting to run and stay all at the same time. The stone glowed brighter than it should have been able to for one endless breath, and then Hermione feel back, released from the connection. She scrambled backwards, wand out, ready to do battle.

Ensconced in the pile of forgotten clothing, the chest sat serenely. The agate still glowed, but now a burning ember rather than a fiery force. Hermione watched in silent awe while the glow left the agate and spread out lazily, engulfing the rose petals and traveling down to encompass where the lid should have been.

Without a single creak to belie its age, the lid appeared and opened of its own accord.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. What was this feeling? Her hand went to her heart and fisted in her shirt. Peace had crept inside, easing an ache she hadn't even known was there. But as she took one cautious step closer, Hermione became aware of a new ache. It was what a woman felt when she looked through her mother's old things and found a letter she'd written as a child. It was what a man felt when he thought of his beloved wife, many years gone. It was the feeling of bittersweet regret, of memories and good feelings twisting together inside a person to create a small, wistful smile on lips.

It was the ache of missing someone very dear, and Hermione felt tears pricking her eyes.

She reached up and brushed away a tear, staring at it on her finger. Why was she crying? What was inside that made her feel like this? Abandoning caution, Hermione hastily went to her knees in front of the chest and leaned over, peering inside.

In the velvet depths lay a small book. It was no bigger than a journal, covered in leather that looked pristine despite the age Hermione sensed emanating from it. It was tied closed by a single leather thong, holding the secrets inside. And next to the book was… Hermione's breath caught. She reached inside with a trembling hand, cupped the figurine gently and brought it up into the wand light.

Too realistic to have been created by anything else but magic, the figurine was made of stone, but painted in colors that had never faded. Hermione found herself staring into the faces of two women identical to one another…and to Hermione. They had her hair, her eyes, her figure. And whoever these women had been, they had loved each other fiercely. Between their bodies Hermione could clearly see that they were holding hands while they stoically looked across the centuries into Hermione's face.

"Dear gods," Hermione murmured. Her brain wouldn't function. "_Dear gods_."

She had heard of people strongly resembling ancestors, but this, _this _was too uncanny. And the feelings inside her…the twins were identical, but Hermione couldn't look away from the figure on the left. The ache in her heart intensified until Hermione thought she would just collapse and bawl her eyes out.

She tried to put the figurine down, to get away from this overwhelming sadness. But she couldn't release it and let it drop to the floor like an old toy. It didn't feel right to let go of it for an instant. Close to sobbing, and unsure why, Hermione hastily stuck her wand irreverently in her mouth and held it by biting her teeth down, blindly reaching for the book that still rested inside the chest. Through tearful eyes Hermione read the one word engraved into the leather.

_Memoria._

Remember.

**Scotland, 1473**

Plates crashed, food flew, and chaos reigned.

Hermione dodged a rogue goblet. Men and their _stupid competitions!_ Seething, she tried to push the nearest man out of the way, struggling to make her way to the center of the cheering crowd. Nobody paid any attention to her efforts, too intent on pressing closer to see. Hermione found herself bumped back out. She stumbled back, stepped on a fallen plate and slipped. She caught herself before she crashed to the floor by waving her arms about madly for balance, but the incident only fueled her fury. Hermione pushed her unruly hair out of her face with impatient hands and looked at the impenetrable corporal mass. She growled at the mob in frustration. Some hopped up and down to see, others pushed to get closer, and everyone generally made fools of themselves over the two men fighting in the center.

Conall and Stranger were too busy pummeling each other to notice the attention they were receiving.

Hermione had tried to engage Stranger in another conversation on the way to the evening meal. The stubborn oaf had restricted his answers to monosyllables whenever possible. A faint stain on his cheeks and his studious avoidance of eye contact had immediately alerted her that he was embarrassed by his impassioned declaration. The realization made her relive the moment, and a blush had suffused her own face. Her heart had sped up, and she could no longer find her voice.

_Simpleton_, she mentally sneered at herself. Hermione snatched up a forgotten sword and dirk set from the table. Beyond the human wall Conall yelled something foul and half of the spectators bellowed in protest, while the other half cheered. Stranger must have landed a very good blow. Hermione wasted no time trying to penetrate the crowd again. _What one cannot get through_, she thought as she crawled beneath the table, _ones goes under_. She scurried as quickly as her gown and weaponry would allow, ignoring the multitude of legs shuffling around her. A few more lengths and she would reach the combatants.

And then there would be hell to pay.

If he had just been able to find a spine and talk to her, she thought, none of this would have happened. If he hadn't taken the low road and challenged Conall to a game of dice, she wouldn't have to do this. If Conall hadn't risen to the bait and accepted the challenge, eager for a way to express his hostility toward the stranger, she would be even now enjoying a fine meal and basking in the recollection of her pleasant afternoon.

"But _no_," she growled to herself, moving to the left to avoid a stray foot. "We had to start throwing insults as well as dice. We just _had _to beat our chests and show our manliness."

Hermione wasn't certain who had struck first, but the next thing she had known Conall and Stranger had been rolling on the ground like a pair of boys. They were quickly ensconced in a mass of spectators, all of which were much more interested in the outcome, than in ending the fight itself. Individual magics collided in the tussle and sent various objects flying in every direction, leaving her to crawl through the remnants of the meal and vowing to have ever inch of the Great Hall scrubbed when this was done. _Oh yes_, she thought grimly. _There was going to be hell to pay_.

Draco grunted when Conall's fist drove into his stomach, but quickly retaliated with a one-two combination he'd learned during the war. Wands were not always within reach, forcing him and others to rely on wits and fists. Draco hissed when Conall's teeth cut his knuckles, but viewed the split lip with satisfaction. The wanker stumbled back at least two feet. Draco smiled through his own split lip, enjoying himself immensely despite the anger that boiled inside. He hadn't had a good, solid, down-and-dirty-I'm-going-to-beat-you-senseless fistfight in ages. It just wasn't done for someone of his social stature.

Draco eyed Conall with dark humor. But when in Rome…..

Both men faced off over the few feet separating them, breathing heavily from exertion. Conall wiped his mouth with the back of his bruised hand, refusing to break eye contact. The crazed Englishman wasn't half bad in a fight, he acknowledged with reluctant respect. There was power behind his blows, and he was quick on top of that. Conall decided that victory would be sweeter in light of his opponent's skill. Draco was thinking similar thoughts, and the time had come to end this little skirmish.

They charged one another.

Bare inches apart, something caught Draco's attention out of the corner of his eye. He almost moved too late, the stool clipping him on the shoulder as it sailed between him and Conall. Surprise had minimum time to register before he felt that all-too-familiar sensation of metal pressing against his throat. He froze immediately and stared into Hermione's smoldering eyes.

"When I say _stop fighting_," she said stoically, "I mean it." She transferred her angry gaze to Conall, who had the sword at _his _throat this time. Draco smothered the surge of smug pleasure quickly. The knife he had at his own skin was still lethally sharp, after all. Conall's face was red, but he looked right back at Hermione defiantly. "Perhaps ye need to be reminded who commands this keep," she bit out.

She swept the crowd, letting everyone see her anger. "All of ye."

Draco heard gulping, and not all were his own. Hermione was genuinely furious. It rolled off of her body in waves, permeating the air. Her teeth were bared in a primal show of dominance. If she had spoken in that exact instant, he knew she would have hissed like a cat. The expression on her face said clearly that she was seriously contemplating doing bodily harm.

Draco had never seen anything so sexy in his life.

Gryffindor Granger (and Draco was becoming quickly convinced that this woman was indeed Hermione in a past life) holding sharp instruments and debating their uses sent a thrill through Draco unlike any he'd ever known before. He found her anger entrancing, her sneakiness enticing, her aggressive stance intoxicating. In short, he was so aroused by the sight of her it was all he could do not to toss her over his shoulder and find the nearest bed.

Immediately.

Conall was eyeing him, trying to figure out why Draco's eyes had that strange glint in them. He looked at Hermione like he was starving and she was his favorite food. Hermione ignored them both and tried to reach for calm. She held both blades with the steady hand of practice.

It was quite possible, Draco acknowledged to himself, that he had brought this moment on himself. Moments after making his little speech, Draco had become so embarrassed that he'd been surprised he hadn't died right then and there. Really, could he have sounded just a _little _more like a man soothing his distraught girlfriend? The more he had thought about it, the more stupid Draco had felt. He was here on a mission, and what did he do? Spend precious time _talking _and _gardening _with the Gryffindor Princess of Yesteryear.

Draco had become so disgusted with himself that he'd ignored Hermione with a vengeance. Conall had provided the perfect opportunity to vent Draco's anger. When the dice game had turned into something more, Draco had relished the chance to silence the confusing thoughts inside and focus on pounding Conall into the floor.

It hadn't quite gone as he'd hoped, but Draco felt strangely satisfied with the outcome. Call him a true Slytherin pervert, but Draco wouldn't have missed the sight of Hermione intent on mayhem for all the Desirous Deserting Danas in the world.

Which should have worried him, but the knife at his jugular demanded all of that particular emotion at the moment.

Focusing in on Hermione (he would deal with the stranger's open lust later), Conall tried to reason. "Now, Hermione-"

"Hauld yer wheest," the lady growled. Conall gulped before he could stop himself. So much for reason. All around the crowd watched nervously, too afraid to fidget. There were few times when their lady lost her temper, but when she did… If ever anyone had harbored any doubts that Hermione was perhaps too soft to lead, it disappeared after witnessing the complete transformation that overtook her in such times.

Laughing eyes hardened to amber points, piercing a person where he or she stood. Her cheeks, normally rosy from laughter, turned bright red with the blood that boiled. She drew back her lips and actually snarled. Her body went poker straight, her shoulders flew back, and when she opened her mouth, razor sharp words poured forth to slice an offender to pieces. Every man or woman involved invariably found themselves reduced to sniveling children at best, puddles of shame at worst. It was quite a phenomenon, one each and every resident avoided at all costs.

They had failed this time.

The worst of it was that they knew that they deserved her anger.

Hermione was struggling for control. She wanted nothing more than to knock someone's block off, but that didn't quite send the correct message that fighting one's own was bad. So after a very tense moment, she casually lowered both blades and stepped back. "No one leaves this hall until it is spotless." Unable to speak further (she was afraid she might start shouting), Hermione strode forward. Silently the crowd parted like a sea and watched her go. She didn't pause until she reached the doors, casting a killing glance over her shoulder.

Just when everyone thought she would simply leave, Hermione drove the sword and dirk viciously into the massive door. _Thunk thunk! _"Clean!" she barked. People went running, scrambling over one another to obey. Only Draco and Conall remained where they stood, Conall glaring at Draco watching Hermione with blatant appreciation. "Stop looking at her," he hissed at the blond.

The other man took his eyes off of Hermione's retreating figure and glared at Conall. "Jealous?" he taunted.

"Stay away from her, Englishman, or it'll be _my _knife at your throat."

Draco looked at the knife and sword that still reverberated in their resting places. "That woman needs none of your protection, I think."

Hannah was waiting for her. Neither said a word until Hermione walked right into her sister's outstretched arms. "I hate men," Hermione muttered into her twin's hair. She was shaking from her suppressed anger.

Hannah laughed. "What did they do now?"

"Stranger and Conall got into a brawl right in the middle of the meal and no one would help me stop them."

"Did ye make them regret it?"

"I think so. I threatened Conall and Stranger with death and made everyone stay and scrub the hall until it sparkles." Hermione's gaze darkened once more. "It had better blind me when next I enter. And as for those two miscreants-" Her eyes narrowed.

Hannah patted her back in sympathy. "I'm sure ye struck fear in their very hearts, dear," she soothed. She was struggling to hide her wild grin. Hermione losing her temper had always been entertaining to Hannah. She's always been of the opinion that the people took her sister for granted. Perhaps she overly worried, but Hannah couldn't stand the thought of her sister appearing weak in anyone's eyes. It was these little displays of temper that reassured Hannah that her sister had the castle firmly under her thumb, not the other way around.

Hermione huffed, but didn't say anything more on the subject. She pulled away and flopped into one of Hannah's chairs. "What have you been doing today?" she asked, picking up a bit of embroidery. Hannah hadn't gotten any further on it then when she'd inspected it yesterday. Dismayed, Hermione looked over at her sister, who had sat as well. _She looks so worn out_, Hermione thought. _Like she's wasting away_.

It was true. Hannah grew paler with every day that passed. It had been months since Duncan's death, but her sister never seemed to be without her grief. Hermione didn't know what a broken heart felt like. She would be the first to admit that she had never experienced the depth of pain that Hannah was going through. But that didn't mean that Hermione didn't hurt watching Hannah hurt. Duncan had been a wonderful man, much too young and too good to die like he had. He deserved every moment of mourning.

But her sister was wasting away. She was wane, little lines appearing around her eyes and mouth that had never been there before. The sparkle in her eyes had died out, leaving them flat and glassy. Hannah had a beautiful laugh, but no one heard it anymore. Hermione had thought that the thought of her child's impending birth would give Hannah a reason to survive the sorrow. She still breathed, but now Hermione worried that she no longer had the spirit she needed to truly live.

Hermione got up and went to kneel before her sister, the incident of earlier a thousand miles away from her mind. She cupped Hannah's face in her hands and stared deeply into her twin's startled eyes. Two equally small hands cupped hers. They were so close that they breathed the same air. "Tell me what to do," Hermione said in a low, urgent voice. "Tell me what you need, and I will give it to you. Anything, anywhere. Just ask me, Hannah."

Hannah, surprised by the desperate note in her sister's voice, couldn't speak for a moment. Hermione looked so worried, as if she were afraid that Hannah would die at any moment if she didn't do something. She was determined to do whatever it took to save Hannah.

A spark of something flared in Hannah's heart. Regret for causing her sister concern. Warmth of gratitude for Hermione's fierce determination to make everything all better. Whatever it was, it quickly grew and spread to every inch of Hannah. She leaned in and lay her forehead against her sister's, relishing the contact. This was her rock, she thought to herself. When of the rest of the world mocked them, hurt them, scorned them, she and Hermione had always had each other.

They always would.

"There's a full moon tonight," Hermione told her. Hannah absorbed the information, images of so many full moons past, when they had thrown away their cares and danced into the early morn. Nights when it had just been the twins, the moonlight, the wind, and the stars. Oh, to feel that way again!

"Yes," Hannah whispered. "Yes."

"Don't screw this up," Draco told himself. "Just play it cool. Be smooth. No more picking fights. Oh, and try not to think about her and sharp objects. You know what it does to you."

Did he _ever_.

Draco brushed away the suggestive images that leapt to mind and continued striding purposefully toward Hannah's sitting room. It had been hours since Hermione had left the hall. As much punishment as she'd thought it would be, cleaning the hall had taken no more than a few flicks of his wand. He hadn't wanted to go see her right away, however. He'd been too confused, too emotional, too damned horny to think straight.

He'd spent the last few hours pacing his room. At first he'd only raged at himself. It had gone something like:

_When did you become such an emotional MORON! What part of 'life or death situation' don't you understand? And let's not forget it's **your **bloody 'life or death'! Letting yourself get distracted by a pretty girl is a major mistake. Never mind that she has a brain. You have to find a way to get the treasure, and you can't do that by chatting her up!_

Or could he?

It had occurred to him that Hermione was his best bet at finding the treasure. She had gone so far as to suspect him of lurking about for that very reason. But she liked him. Draco had seen the expression on her face, the hope and the hurt. It would be easy to talk to her, to get her to trust him, to work it into the conversation.

He couldn't tell her why he needed to know. Besides the potential historical consequences, Draco found the notion of confession repulsive. He didn't want Hermione to think that he was just using her. _But that's what you're going to do, isn't it? _No, he was just, well, it was…Bugger. He was going to use Hermione. But surely saving his life was a noble cause? The thing about the whole situation was this--he liked Hermione, and it was getting in the way of his mission.

He freely admitted to himself, there alone in his room, that if he would allow himself to do so, it would be very easy to fall into his attraction to this girl. Without the stigma of hurtful, volatile encounters between their teenaged selves to separate them, Draco found himself drawn to Hermione to a degree he had never before experienced. He _liked _talking to her. She was a very pretty girl with a brain she wasn't afraid to use. In fact she _longed _to use it.

And when she looked at him, she didn't see his family name. Hell, she didn't even know what it was. She had seen _Draco_. She had heard what _Draco _had to say. For the first time in his life Draco had been measured by his own merit…and he liked it too much.

So he'd come up with a plan--make Hermione like him, and pray that he had the strength to keep his feelings in check until he had the secret. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was better than the one he'd had yesterday.

The nearer he came to Hannah's room, from which Hermione had yet to emerge even after several hours, Draco became nervous and tried to smooth his new black shirt down and practice what he was going to say. Something about Hermione made him forget the glib lines he would need to get closer to her, so he needed all the practice he could get. He couldn't do it in front of Hannah, either, with her all-knowing eyes and uncanny ability to discern the indiscernible.

He was almost there--good Merlin, how did people _see _with just torchlight!--when the door creaked open. Draco opened his mouth to say something when Hermione and Hannah slipped out of the room silently. Something about the way they moved kept Draco quiet. They looked neither right nor left, but hurried down the hall as quickly and stealthily as Hannah's pregnancy would allow.

Draco's eyes narrowed. Where the devil did these two think they were going? It was well passed the time for being out. Most of the others had either gone to bed or were getting ready to. Draco had been counting on this when he had planned this little endeavor. Lots of alone time.

Maybe they were going to the treasure? Well, there was only one way to find out what was going on. Draco crept alone silently behind the women. They moved with purpose, whatever they were doing. They went down stairs, through doors, bypassing the Great Hall entirely. Draco began to get a little nervous when they went out into the courtyard. What kind of treasure would be outside? Was it in the stable?

He kept to the shadows, thankful for the black cloth of his shirt and mentally cursing his hair. He could change it with a spoken word, but he was afraid to break the silence and draw attention to himself. They didn't seem to be too interested in their surroundings, however. In fact, they were heading straight for the--hidden door?

Sure enough, Hannah waved her hand over the bit of false wall that Draco himself had used 600 years into the future to enter the castle. It slid open with nary a sound, and the girls went through without pausing. He had to give up caution to run fast enough to reach the door. He was just about to slip through the opening when a hand clamped down on his shoulder and jerked him back.

Draco found himself slammed into the wall and staring into the angry eyes of Conall. He'd been so intent on hunting Hermione and Hannah that he'd completely ignored anyone following _him_! "What are ye doin'?" Conall growled.

Draco fought down his irritation at getting jumped and the urge to hex someone. He thought fast. "I'm trying to see that those two idiots don't get hurt! Or is it common practice to let your women run around in the middle of the night?" he taunted, pushing Conall's hand violently away.

Conall eyed him suspiciously. "They've done this before." His tone implied that while he accepted the fact, he was still a little worried.

"So you're going to allow them free reign to move outside the castle when you know they might very well be in danger? Right then. Run along, and I'll do the protecting." Draco grinned. "I might even get to save Hermione and be the hero. I hear women love to kiss heroes." He pushed off the wall and made to open the hidden door.

He was stopped once more by a hand on his shoulder. Conall looked extremely determined, yet slightly ill at the same time. "I'm going with you," he ground out. Smug, Draco returned to his task. Now he had an experienced, albeit reluctant, tracker. He'd find those girls in no time.

And maybe, just maybe, he would find their secret.

_To Be Continued…._

**Author's Dedications:**

Thanks to my friend and beta Lorett, who always somehow manages to find the time to support while checking for grammar and commiserating at the same time. Thanks for being an awesome person!

To Sage, with whom friendship comes so effortlessly.

To the Three Keys Members (Rahnee, SlytherinsWench, Hafthand, Argosy, SJ, Accio, and all the others) who have so much fun and make me laugh even at the worst times.

To everyone who has reviewed this story in particular, and my other stories in general--to borrow a phrase Lorett uses, there's nothing like the written word to encourage an author! Thanks so much!

**References:**

You can find the meanings of moss agate and many other gemstones at


	6. Part V

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, JKR's got it all. **

**Part V**

In Draco's time, the forest had been a thing to fear. It had been creeping back toward the castle, trying to gobble up the stones that had been taken from their depths. Attempting to destroy the evil that pervaded the structure by returning it to its rightful place in nature. When Draco stepped through the hidden door in 1473, he was stunned by the change. He was confronted by a field, the figures of the hurrying twins illuminated by the moonlight.

Draco was so busy marveling at his surroundings that he almost didn't notice that Conall had taken the lead. By the time Draco snapped out of it, Conall was silently loping across the expanse in hot pursuit of the twins. Draco had to rush to catch up. He knew that anyone who bothered to look out of a window could see them easily. It would be impossible to effectively attack from the woods, Draco realized. The forest stood at a discreet distance from the castle proper. If Aniston were to arrive tomorrow, he would be forced out into the open field if he wanted to do any real damage. The arrangement cancelled out any possibility of a surprise attack.

So how the hell had Aniston managed to conquer the castle? Draco dodged branches and leapt over exposed roots, only half aware of what he was doing. He wasn't worried about making any noise. This wasn't the first time he had ever had to get somewhere quickly and silently. In fact, he was so busy brooding over the mechanics of his ancestor's eventual invasion that he didn't register the fact that Conall had stopped.

Draco ran right into the burly bastard who, much to Draco's displeasure, didn't move a muscle. Draco, however, bounced back and would have fallen if the bugger hadn't steadied him.

Clutching his nose, Draco shook off Conall's hand and glared at the other man silently. _That had better not be a smirk on his ugly face_, he thought furiously. Bad enough that he hadn't been paying attention. Worse still that he had actually run into someone and had to be caught up like a fainting woman by that same someone. _If that bastard laughed, there was going to be one less person coming out of these woods!_

Conall had turned his face away from Draco so he couldn't see his expression, but his shoulders were suspiciously shaking. Just as Draco was about to kick caution to the wind and whale the impertinent arse, Conall gained control of himself and motioned Draco silently forward. The trees in front of them had grown so close together over the years that they formed a natural wall. Draco couldn't see anything significant through the small spaces that were visible. To his left, however, he could see a space just big enough to form a door. Conall pointed to one side of the opening. With narrowed eyes, the blond man crept up to the tree the warrior had indicated. Conall hid on the other side. Together, the men peeked cautiously into the twins' hideaway.

Draco's eyes widened.

It was a rose glen, a beautiful paradise ensconced in an ugly, harsh place. Hundreds of roses crept up the trees, wildly engulfing almost every inch of space they could. The fragrance was intoxicating, even to Draco, who disdained roses. Blossoms of every color found itself kissed by the moonlight that filtered brightly through the treetops. Draco's gaze flickered to the bark underneath his fingers. Hawthorns, the witch's tree. This tree was supposed to be the transfigured bodies of some of the earliest witches in existence, making it sacred and widely used in the wizarding world. It was the ultimate creation symbol.

There was a lot of magic to be found in this glen. Pure, unadulterated magic, in its rawest form. Draco was just a wee bit awed by it all.

In the center of the glen the twins stood and admired their surroundings. Hermione looked at Hannah, Hannah looked back--and suddenly giggled. Hermione soon joined her. And then the pair were laughing like little girls, separating to run to the rose bushes. To Draco's surprise, the two began to kiss every rose within reach, grinning and crooning like a brace of loons. What in the devil were they….?

The roses began to glow.

One by one, blossoms shimmered to life and opened. Draco heard the distinct sound of little bells tinkling. To his amazement the lights rose and began to dart about merrily. Of course! Fairies loved roses. Glens like this were said to open up portals between the mortal world and the fey.

Hannah reached for Hermione.

They swung one another around in child-like delight. Always ready to play, the fey swooped about madly, tickling the women and riding in their hair to join in the fun. Hannah broke away from Hermione and twirled around, her arms raised toward the moon. One light separated from her hair. It hovered in front of her, growing and stretching until it was taller than Hannah herself. A male fairy stepped forward, now the size of a human man. Had this been the first time Hannah had ever seen him, she would have been gaping. As it was, she was still stunned by his sheer beauty, but by now she had grown somewhat used to it. "Calix," she greeted breathlessly.

The fey man bowed. Black hair fell rakishly over one eye, that one lock that forever escaped the queue at the base of his neck. Blue eyes met hers when he straightened. "I've missed you," he murmured. It was a tone that brought hot summer nights and lots of naked skin to mind. Hannah smiled. 'You say that to all the pregnant women you meet," she teased.

His answering grin was wicked. "What can I say? There's something about a witch about to bring forth life that thrills me as nothing else." His eyes dropped to her distended belly. "A glow, if one must describe it." He grabbed her hand and kissed it gallantly. "Where have you been, my Hannah?"

Hannah's smile turned bittersweet. "Surviving," she answered softly, looking over at her sister. Hermione was currently upside down, laughing while she fought to keep her skirt from drooping over her face and exposing delicate selections of her anatomy. Little bells tinkled in response.

Calix hooked a finger under her jaw and gently brought her attention back to himself. "You haven't been doing a very good job, my love. Have those mortals been treating you callously? You should finally accept my offer and return to the fey world with me." He extended a hand to indicate the glen, falling back on the old lure he had been offering since the twins were little more than infants. "All of this and more at your lovely feet."

Hannah quirked her eyebrow, going along with the old routine. "Oh? And what about Hermione?"

Calix pretended to think about it, tapping his chin. "Hm, two magical women all to myself. Very well, since you begged so sweetly, I accept!"

"Oh, but I'm sorry, my lord. I must be the only woman in my man's life, but I fear that I must stay with my sister. She needs me, you know."

Calix laughed heartily, as he always did when she answered thus. He hooked an arm around her waist and swept her up against his body. "Ah, Hannah, I truly did miss you. Ever since you two were little girls, I have looked forward to our meetings. What will I do without you?" A rare sadness dimmed the sparkle in his eye. Hannah felt her heart skip a beat. "What do you mean?" she questioned, a note of anxiety evident in her voice.

Calix looked grim. "One day another man will come and take you two away from me again," he answered solemnly. Then, as though the sadness had never been, he teased, "But then, isn't that the way of things with two such beauties as yourselves?"

Hannah stared at him for a moment. What had that been about? Had Calix experienced one of those fleeting moments of fey sentimentality toward mortals…or had it been something more? Something prophetic? No, that was the grief of the last few months talking. She was safe in her home. Nothing would take that away from her. _For once, Hannah, let go and remember who you used to be._

She shook off the feeling of foreboding and offered Calix a smile. "Dance with me," she asked. Calix didn't hesitate. "Always."

It was late when they returned. The moon was sinking behind the trees when the twins entered the courtyard again. They remained silent throughout most of the trip home, not speaking again until they stood outside Hannah's room. "Thank you," Hannah whispered. She squeezed Hermione's hand once, and then quietly entered her room. She needed time to be alone.

Hermione watched her close her door, understanding that Hannah had taken a new step toward reclaiming her life tonight. Talking to Calix, returning to the glen, dancing under the stars. Hannah needed a moment to let the possibility of a new life, without Duncan, to sink in.

Hermione walked aimlessly down the hall, not quite sleepy enough to retire. She trailed her fingers along the wall, using the contact to ground her while she lost herself to her thoughts. _What would it be like_, she wondered, _to fall in love_? Hannah had been in love with Duncan for so long no one had ever really questioned it as something other than fact. It had just seemed to always be. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and Hannah loved Duncan.

But what about Hermione? Would she simply know, like Hannah had, when she found the One? Hermione rather thought that it would be something like a lightening bolt striking. Everything would suddenly become clear, and her future would be mapped out from that moment on.

It sounded so….boring.

Hannah had been supremely happy with Duncan. They had matched one another perfectly, their temperaments balancing out. They had never argued, never fought, and never doubted for one moment that they would one day wed. Hermione had been happy for them, yet at the same time had wondered if she could survive such a relationship.

Granted, Hermione's experience with relationships of an abiding nature was restricted to her findings in potions. Yet potions that contained two ingredients that possessed characteristics of an opposing nature (minor or major) lasted much longer and retained a high level of potency. Potions made of ingredients that perfectly complimented one another tended to stagnate and diminish in effectiveness. Hermione had always supposed that a relationship between a man and a women would be like that of the ingredients. For the relationship to work, the two people had to retain quirks and differences in their personalities. They would always find something new about their partner, have new reasons to stay interested and active in the relationship.

Two people who knew everything about each other, with no real differences in personality…..well, it became more about comfort than love then, didn't it? It would be like marrying yourself, with no surprises. Even she and Hannah had differences. Hannah was much more logical than she, despite the fact that Hermione was the more avid learner. It was those little things that bound them together much more tightly.

So was love the relationship that had existed between Hannah and Duncan? Or was love something else, something more like Hermione had once imagined it to be?

"You're a bloody idiot."

Now really, that was rather- wait a minute, that wasn't her voice! Hermione stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder in surprise. Like an angel swooping out of the night, Draco of Nowhere was bearing down on her, his hair a blinding contrast to his black shirt. He was scowling at her. Hermione cocked her head at him. "What are you doing--?"

He kept walking, going right past her and barreling down the hall with the speed of the angry. Hermione's mouth dropped open. Annoyance quickly overwhelmed mild shock. She rushed after him. "Now, see here, I was speaking to ye!" How dare he call her an idiot and then run off without so much as a by-your-leave? "I demand an explanation!"

He ignored her and kept walking.

Hermione was practically running by now. She managed a singular burst of speed and threw herself into his path, bringing him to a stuttering halt. "Who do you think you are!" she snapped at him.

He was glaring at her, his eyes crackling with emotion. "I am a very tired man, running around after a madwoman who doesn't have the sense to stay inside at night." He tried to go around her. He was too mixed up right now to talk to her reasonably. Draco had to hide out in his room awhile and deal with his thoughts. Tonight he had come to the conclusion that he had to use Hermione to get the treasure. For a moment there he had allowed himself to hope that she would lead him to the secret, thereby giving him what he needed without having to resort to tricking a girl he was beginning to like too much.

He was afraid that if he stayed, he might start to shout at her. He would very likely tell her things that he shouldn't. Draco was also certain that he would take the anger that had been steadily growing inside all night out on her.

Hermione blocked him once more. "Ye were following us? _Spying_?" she spat out incredulously. "I should have Conall-"

Draco took a menacing step forward. "Somebody had to make sure that you two brainless twits didn't get yourselves hurt," he returned angrily. "And just for your information, your precious Conall was with me almost the entire time."

Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her hands went straight to her hips. "Hannah and I have been doing just fine without you for years," she told him hotly. She would deal with the issue of Conall's defection later.

Draco waved his hand. "Yes, well, that was before, wasn't it?"

"Nothing has changed-"

"The devil it hasn't!" Draco thundered. "_Everything _has changed, Hermione! You can't go out there like that again. Theses are dangerous times and you know it!" He poked her shoulder. "You could have been _hurt_. Do you even understand that concept, or do you somehow think that you are invincible?"

Hermione slapped his hand away. "What do you know of danger in this world? You will not be here forever, so why do you care if I live or die?"

Anger surged to new heights inside of him. "Die? _Die? _That's just it, isn't it? I shouldn't care if you live or die, because you are already six hundred years in the grave!" he shouted. "By the time I am born, not even dust will be left of you!"

She paled and took a step back. He watched her, his breathing shallow. It was all her fault, he thought to himself. It was all her fault that he felt this way. If she hadn't been the way she was, so like Granger, he wouldn't have cared about her like he did. It wouldn't hurt so much to know that he would be using her. He wouldn't have felt like he had been stabbed in the heart while he watched her in the glen. Suddenly realizing that this girl was going to die so very soon because of his ancestor…because of him, wouldn't have made him rather die than go through with it.

He'd wanted to burst into the glen and take both girls into his arms and run so very far away. He wanted to tell her everything and damn the consequences. So what if history was changed forever? So what if thousands of events would alter instantly? So what if he died in the end? Hermione would be alive. Hannah and her baby would be alive.

But he couldn't. This was bigger than him, or her, or Hannah. It involved possibly millions of lives and events that, if changed, would alter his world for the worse. Draco was suddenly made responsible for the lives of babies that hadn't even been born yet, and it chafed him to know it. It was killing him inside to be damned any way he moved. "You and Hannah don't exist for me. You've been gone so long no one remembers your names!"

"I live," she told him, conviction hardening the words. "I live and breathe and love. For all the air you draw into your lungs, can you tell me the same?"

He couldn't. Gods help him, he truly couldn't say that he had ever lived. Living required a reason, a higher calling that he just didn't have. He had always existed, drifting. She saw him rear back involuntarily, and pushed on. "When I die I will have gone knowing that I served my purpose and do not die in vain. I've watched you these last few days, and I can tell ye that I see no direction, no goal, no rationale to your life! Ye wander about, looking for something ye don't even know you'll recognize when you see it, and then you have the bollocks to tell _me _I don't live!"

She turned away, seething. How dare he? Gods, she wanted to slap him! She wanted to wipe that scowl right off of his face so badly she could taste it--her wrist was snatched up and he spun her to face him. "Let me go, ye arrogant-!" He dragged her into his arms. Ignoring her protest, he bent his head and kissed her. It was hard and quick and close-mouthed. Draco wasn't sure why he did it, but the urge that drove him had been so strong that he hadn't questioned it. It didn't last long. Barely a taste, to his mind. Hermione lurched back and broke his hold on her wrist. Her eyes blazed with hurt and frustration. She drew her arm back and let her fist fly. He caught it easily--only to be blindsided by her left hook! She hit him so hard that his head snapped to the side.

She tore away completely. Holding his gaze, she reached up and deliberately swabbed at her lips with the back of her hand. "That," she said slowly, "was my first kiss. Ye ruined that for me."

As quick as a flash, Hermione raised her knee--right into his family gems! The breath left him in a whoosh while agony swept him. His knees went weak. He collapsed to the floor, cupping himself protectively and trying very hard not to cry like a baby. That bloody wench! Bloody, _bloody_, wench! Hermione stood in front of him, completely unsympathetic to the devastation she had caused. In fact, she looked rather satisfied with herself. The little--

"Now we're even," she told him smugly. Without another word she turned on her heel….and left him there!

The next morning he approached with determination. He almost hadn't approached at all, but had firmly reminded himself that while tender, he still had his manhood, and he was damned if he was going to hide out from the Squibby wench. They were having this out. Now.

He planted his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Apologize."

Hermione measured out an ounce of powder. "Drown yourself," she immediately responded. She never looked away from the powder, giving Draco only half the attention he was used to getting. Which he noted right away. Which pissed him off that much further to have noted it.

Which made some inner thing laugh its ass off at his continued denial of his feelings.

Draco growled. "Taking away my future children," he gritted, "in exchange for stealing a kiss is in _no way _equal. Now apologize to me!" _Stop looking at her lips!_ he commanded himself, dragging his eyes away.

Hermione took his demand in stride, casually casting it aside in favor of stirring the liquid in the little bowl just so. "Not quite right," she murmured to herself. "Hand me those silver fir needles." He passed the jar that sat next to his left hand, continuing his tirade. "It's not like the kiss was all that grand anyway. It barely lasted a minute. If that. That's--use a smaller spoon, it might help, yes that one--fairly insignificant compared to the propagation of my line. If you really think about it, you're denying not only me of my children, but my poor wife as well--"

That caught her attention. She looked at him for the first time in the entire exchange, her eyes narrowed. "What were ye doin' kissing me if ye were married?" she asked suspiciously.

He waved the question away. "I'm not married, but by the gods, the possibility still exists! That is, if a woman will even have me now that you've gelded me." He ignored her snort. "Heirs are still very important in my world, thank you very much."

Hermione rolled her eyes, returning her attention back to the apple she was dicing. "I'm sure your wife will be quite satisfied with your reproductive abilities. Apple?" She tossed him a piece, which he caught. "Though why you're so worried is beyond me. Surely you can find a woman who will appreciate you for more than what children you may give her. Ye are well bred. You aren't unpleasant all the time, though you have your moments. I suppose, if one is interested in such things, you aren't that hard to look at. It could not be that hard to find someone for yourself."

Draco hooked his foot under a nearby stool, brought it over, and sat down. "You're hopeless. At this rate, the potion will be too far gone for the apple to take affect." He took a knife and apple and started to peel. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he asked.

"I'd think what?"

He tossed the skin and started cutting again. "You would think that a handsome, civilized, wealthy chap like myself would have women swarming his doorstep. In school girls would fight to sit next to me in class. I thought for sure once I survived the war and finished sowing my wild oats that I would find a wonderful girl and settle down. But here I am, a spinster at twenty five!" Draco whacked the apple viciously with a huge knife. One piece flew off of the table and hit a dog laying nearby, who jumped.

Hermione soothed the poor hound with a bit of meat. "Men can't be spinsters," she pointed out, managing to hide her smile. She watched his agitated movement, the issue obviously bothering him. Hermione had a feeling that Draco of Nowhere was used to being seen as a charming, unruffled man. Yet she could see that he was more out of place here than temporally speaking. Everything was new, and he was reacting like a little boy who had never been around other people because of it.

It was just a wee bit endearing.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, pointing at her with his knife triumphantly. "That shows how much you know! Bachelors," he explained, gesturing with the blade, "are men who _want _to be single. Men who are quite happy with the way their lives are going. I," he almost stabbed himself in the chest at this point, but he caught the motion in time and put the knife gingerly on the table. "I _want _to get married. I _want _to have children. I just can't seem to get it all together. Therefore, I am a spinster." Draco glared. _Stop looking at her lips!_ "And thanks to you, I'm stuck in the condition. Who wants to marry a man who can't have children?"

"What war?"

"What are you on about?"

"Ye said something about surviving a war…."

He never did get his apology. Explaining the war took far longer than he had anticipated. First he had to go through the terminology, and then Hermione had begun her questions. What a brain that girl had. She had asked him things he had had no answer for, and he had been there! He had found himself alternately bewildered, angry, amused, and saddened throughout the entire discussion. By the time they had taken a break, Draco had absentmindedly helped her complete four potions and a snack.

They were on one of the tower rooftops. There was a table where the men sometimes ate their meals while they stood guard, and the two sat on top of the table so that they could better see the view. Draco bit into his cheese and marveled. "This really is a beautiful country," he said. "You know, from afar."

From up here he could see much more of the countryside than he ever had before. The forest stretched out for miles, but there were patches of farmland where much of the castle's foodstuffs came from. Draco could see herds of sheep, and even a river that he assumed was somehow connected with the cavern's water system. There were hills and valleys and colors that Draco hadn't been aware existed in Nature. He had never really stopped to appreciate it, he supposed.

Hermione murmured an agreement around her bread. Once she finished chewing, she asked, "What was it like where you lived?" She was swinging her feet like a child. For a moment Draco forgot to reply, captivated as he was watching her. But then he shook himself and managed to look away. _Stop looking at her lips!_ "Well, I lived in a city. School was set in a pretty secluded area, but I never really ventured out except to play Quidditch." He had explained the game to her. She showed about as much enthusiasm for it now as she would six hundred years later--none whatsoever. Except perhaps the flying bit. That had intrigued her. "And the manor where I grew up had a lot of land to it, but it was all perfectly manicured. Nothing like this."

Hermione propped her chin on her hand. "I've never been to a city," she admitted. "Is it as big as they say?"

"Imagine all of this," he said, indicating the land, "covered in buildings. Some are taller than this castle, or at least in my time. There's people everywhere."

"It sounds exciting." Hermione sounded wistful.

Draco shrugged. "It can be. There's no end to entertainment. Mostly its lonely. You can never hope to meet all the people around you, and everyone seems more concerned with themselves than anybody else. It can get rather brutal." Funny. He'd never thought about it like that before. "Why have you never been to a city?"

Hermione sighed and picked at her bread. "We were afraid of what would happen. Here, people know that we're….different. They accept it. The further away from the castle we go, the less understanding people can be." A little flash of pain in her eyes. "There was this fair once…"

They had been trapped here by circumstances they couldn't understand or control. Magical children often had less control over their powers, no matter what training they might have received. They tended to react instinctively, sometimes with devastating consequences. "But now that you've grown up," he pressed. "Surely you can go now."

"Sometimes I want to," Hermione said. "When Hannah married and moved away, I was lonely. Then my father sickened. I just…stayed."

Draco sipped his drink. "If the two of you never left here, how did Hannah meet Duncan?"

"My father was a healer. He saved Duncan's father once. They were friends until they died. It pleased them that their children got along so well. When they married, Hannah went to live with them. Duncan was just a second son, but he was very important to his clan." Hermione thought back to the years she and her sister had been separated. It had hurt so much, and while she had adored Duncan, Hermione had been incredibly happy to have Hannah with her again. "They never truly welcomed Hannah, though. She also got strange looks. When Duncan died, they blamed her." Anger tightened her lips. "I sent Conall to help her escape. She had to hide in a hay cart for miles."

Hermione had known the minute Duncan had died. Hannah's grief had reached out across the miles and gripped her hard. She had collapsed by the well, overwhelmed by tears that she had no logical reason for. At first everyone believed that her hysterics had been a delayed reaction to her father's death, but soon it had become clear that Hermione's pain was not her own. Conall and a handful of the best warriors Hermione could find had been dispatched immediately. Hermione had been waiting at the gate when they returned less than a week later with a haggard, grief-stricken Hannah in tow.

"They want her dead," she continued. "In their eyes Duncan's killer has gone free. They want war badly, but they don't dare encroach on our land."

"They're afraid of what you and Hannah can do."

Hermione nodded. "Yes. So here we stay, Stranger. Feared and reviled by the outside world, two against many. I doubt your city could be so much worse."

Draco was silent for a while. It was startling to realize just how lucky he had been to grow up in a world that understood him. But even then, it hadn't been perfect. Times had advanced, but situations had also reversed. The Great War had happened because the Wizarding world had turned its contempt on Muggles, Muggleborns, and Half-Bloods. The few had still been hated by the many. The notion that things would never change caused a sinking feeling inside.

"I suppose all is not lost. It's not like I have a shortage of men here. I could always marry Conall if I get lonely," Hermione mused.

Draco head snapped to face her. "WHAT?" He realized how jealous he sounded when she began to laugh at him. "It's not funny," he grumbled. "I bet you gelded me because you wanted your first kiss to be with _him_." The word tasted bitter. He took a bite out of his bread and chewed vigorously. He'd been thinking about that damn kiss all day. More specifically, he'd been thinking about kissing her again. _Bad Malfoy_, he berated himself.

Hermione quirked a brow at him. "I _exacted retribution_ because I have waited for years to find that one man who would appreciate me, despite my….differences. If I wanted to give him my first kiss as my gift of gratitude. It was not a common thing, and I did not appreciate having it stolen by someone who didn't value it for what it was." She got off the table and brushed at the crumbs on her dress, anger evident in her movements.

Draco leapt off the table, angry and embarrassed at the accusation. He stepped in front of her to prevent her from leaving. "If it meant that much to you, why did you only get angry now, instead of spending the morning with me? If you were really upset about it, you would have slapped me around a bit. Hexed me or something! So why didn't you?"

She glared at him mutinously. _Stop looking at her mouth!_ "I don't know!" she retorted hotly. "I was angry. I was furious. I couldn't sleep last night for planning all the heinous things I would do to you today. But…I forgot."

"You forgot?" Draco repeated incredulously.

"Yes! I forgot! And anyway, why did you come to me this morning? If you were really upset, you would have planned something and demanded your ridiculous apology later! Why did _you _spend the morning with _me_?"

Draco pursed his lips. He looked away and mumbled something. "What was that?" Hermione asked suspiciously. "I said," he shouted, turning back quickly, "that I forgot too, ok? I forgot too!" He crossed his arms. "Are you happy now?"

Hermione grunted. She made to move around him, but he held out both arms to block her in. "Truce!" he cried out.

"What?"

He looked determined. "I said I want a truce. I don't want to fight. I'll say I'm….sorry….if you will. That'll be the end of it." He didn't look happy, but then, it couldn't have been easy to say the 's' word, Hermione thought.

"Are ye serious?"

"Very." His tone held no hesitation. He waited. "Well, aren't you going to say it?" he demanded.

"You first."

"Like hell."

"This is getting us nowhere." She made to leave again. Once more he blocked her. "Ok, ok! We do it at the same time. On the count of three. How about that?" he gritted out, frustration gnawing him. Hermione sighed, and then finally nodded. "Alright….one…two….three-

"I'm sorry!" he rushed out. And then he realized that the wench hadn't said a thing! "You little-! You tricked me!"

Hermione was laughing. Correction, she was laughing so hard that she was crying. He lunged forward, intent on exacting revenge, but she dodged in time. The girl really was devilishly fast when she wanted to be. He ended up chasing her around the table like a lecherous old man going after his secretary. It wasn't until she tripped and he launched himself over the table that he finally caught her. He was laughing too by then.

For a moment they stood there and hugged each other while they tried to catch their breath. But Draco felt the rising tension in his body. The calmer his breathing got, the more his heart sped up. He was staring into her eyes, barely aware of the smile had slipped from their lips. Awareness grew. For the thousandth time that day, Draco's gaze dropped to her lips. The pull was magnetic. He felt his head bending. He was getting closer. Her eyelashes were drooping. She wasn't moving away….

Someone dropped something large in the courtyard, the crash echoing, making Hermione jump.

The moment broke into a million pieces. Hermione shook her head as if to clear it. Slowly she backed away. He found himself letting her go. She patted his arm. "Yes, well," she started. Nothing else came out, and she blushed.

"Yes," he repeated. "Well."

"I really must be going. Lots to do and all that." Hermione almost tripped again in her haste to get to the door. Once there, however, she paused. She turned back to him, one hand on the door. He stood where she'd left him, watching her. "Do you--do you want to come with me?" she asked, licking her lips nervously.

"Yes," he said again. "Yes."

To Be Continued.


	7. Part VI

_Disclaimer: The two major characters belong to JKR._

**Part VI**

"You have _no concept_ of staying out of trouble." Draco batted away another tree branch. Nature. Why the bloody hell was it always Nature? Why couldn't they stay indoors like normal, civilized people?

"Doona pretend ye are so perfect, Stranger. I know for a fact you are no angel," she tossed carelessly over her shoulder.

Draco narrowed his eyes at her back. "Never claimed to be, but at least I have enough sense to keep from getting caught." He kept a hand close to his wand holster. He peered around casually, reassuring himself that there really was no one spying on them.

"You are paranoid."

"Cautious," Draco corrected. Ha! He was getting soft. There was nothing wrong with paranoia. Hadn't it kept Voldemort and other less-than-desirable wizards with aspirations for world domination alive just a little bit longer? Draco shook his head at himself. His father would be ashamed. Then again….

Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder. On any other woman he would have considered it a flirtatious act. Fat chance of that with this one. She tilted her head up at him. "Only those with reason to be 'cautious' are so. Care to tell me _your _reason."

Not in this lifetime, not if he could help it. "I'm six hundred years out of my element," he said instead. "I'm a little jumpy, alright?"

He wasn't lying, but neither was he telling her the truth. Hermione studied him with one fist on her hip. She carried a basket in the other, having brought him to the forest with the intention of gathering her final ingredients. He stood under her scrutiny, meeting her look for look, but Hermione thought she detected a new tension in his shoulders. He was hoping that she wouldn't question him further.

For days now this man had been among them. He'd somehow transformed from that wild man upon his arrival, into someone who blended in with their way of life. Whenever he was not with her, Stranger was with the people. She'd watched him ask avid questions about everything, refusing to be ignored by the general population. The men had gradually grown to tolerate his presence in their routines. They'd even tried to incorporate him into their tasks, but Stranger had proved resistant. It had become quite clear, quite quickly, that Stranger considered his role that of observer only. The men had teased him at first. Eventually they'd realized that this was simply the way Stranger was, and nothing in the world would change his mind.

He'd even followed the women around. Most of them hadn't been trailed by a handsome man in many years. It was therefore no surprise that they had only giggled and stared while answering his questions. Stranger had charmed them effortlessly.

The question still remained, however - Why?

She was responsible for every soul that lived within these walls. Why, then, had she not queried him more strenuously? It is not as if the thought had never occurred to her. Questions had been on the tip of her tongue countless times. It never failed that at the single moment she would open her mouth to voice them, the words would be stemmed by one reason or another. Hermione knew that Hannah hadn't thought he was a threat, but shouldn't she be giving the matter much more import, for caution's sake if nothing else?

The truth of the matter was that she needed to believe in Draco of Nowhere. She'd been alternately angered and puzzled by the man, but only fleetingly suspicious. He could have harmed them at any time, but he hadn't. This was not a man sent to destroy them. But there _was _something he was conflicted about. Hermione saw the struggle inside as Stranger grappled with issues she could not begin to discern. She wanted him to confide in her, to believe that she could be trusted. There was something good in him. It called out to her, tempted her, and reminded her that there was more to Hermione than the Lady of the Keep.

These were such dangerous thoughts. She had to ask, had to stop procrastinating for fear of shattered illusions. Hermione opened her mouth_. Ask him_, her logic urged. _Ask_.

_Trust in him_, her heart interrupted.

_Truth_, Logic argued.

_Trust_, Heart countered earnestly.

Words caught in her throat-- and died. Frustrated, deflated, Hermione snapped her mouth closed. She continued walking, her quick pace trying to take her away from her confusion.

Draco watched her go, then glanced down at his hand. He'd reached out for her instinctively. His lips thinned, and he clenched his fist. Things were becoming more serious with every moment he spent here. There was nothing he could do to stop it, short of finding a way back to his time and counting the hours until he died.

And that was something he could not contemplate doing.

He followed at a more subdued rate. He knew what she'd been about to ask. Hermione's expressions were becoming far too familiar to him. His reluctance to reveal his deeper purpose was troubling to her. If their position has been reversed, Draco knew that he would not have tolerated silence for long.

She'd come to a stop underneath a particular cluster of trees. Sunlight played in her hair while she tied it back and checked the dagger at her side. He leaned against the trunk of one tree, an unfamiliar feeling tugging at him. Was this guilt? "I don't mean to hurt you," he said hesitantly. Gods, he felt like a ruddy teenager again. Only he had never felt this awkward even then.

She didn't look at him. "Who said anything about being hurt?" She busied herself by kneeling on the ground and rummaging in the basket. Her mouth had tightened considerably. Before he thought, he reached down. Draco captured her chin, turning her face up gently.

He looked a little sad to her. "Don't lie."

"Is it a lie then, to not tell the truth, Draco of Nowhere?"

Her question found its mark. Draco stiffened, and dropped his hand. "Some things," he told her as he leaned away, "are better left unsaid."

She straightened, never looking away. "And some need to be said more than others." She blinked then, releasing him from her stare. Hermione stepped back. "Do you know that plant?"

Draco looked up to where she'd indicated. "Mistletoe. _Viscum album_."

"That is what we are here for. Grab yer dagger and start climbing. And don't let it touch the ground!"

Draco shot her a look of reproach. "I am _not _new at this. I got very decent marks in Herbology, thank you."

"Then be off with you. I have other things to collect."

As quick as a blink he'd caught her arm. "You aren't going to wander off by yourself." His tone brooked no argument.

She glared in response. "I am the leader here, not you. That aside, I only go there for Hawthorne berries." She tugged her arm out of his grip and stomped away. That left Draco with two options. He could pursue, giving into his frustration and starting a blazing hot row. Or he could strategically retreat for the time being.

Draco grabbed a branch and pulled himself up. Tempting though it was, a row would do neither of them or his cause, any good.

They worked in silence for some minutes, each lost in thought. _What could he possibly be hiding? _She wondered. In the limbs above her, Draco cut another bunch and thought_, How much longer am I going to be able to keep this up?_

"So why am I up in a tree, snipping mistletoe?" he asked after awhile.

"I need it for my amulets," Hermione replied shortly.

That caught his attention, but he quickly masked his interest. "Amulets, huh?"

"Yes. For tonight." Should she tell him more? Perhaps not all of it. Keep it to the bare basics. "It's a festival night. There's a game involved, and the amulets are the prize."

Draco mentally tallied all the ingredients they had come in contact with today. Apple, silver fir needles, mistletoe, Hawthorne berries…Draco sat up on his branch. "You're making _love _trinkets?" he asked incredulously. He was utterly shocked at the revelation!

If only he knew…."In a manner of speaking, yes, I am."

"Love trinkets."

"I just said that."

"And yet I'm still amazed. Are you a _romantic_, Hermione?" As far as he knew, Granger hadn't realized the opposite sex existed. Other than one girlish lapse in fourth year for Viktor Krum and that scourge-of-the-earth Lockhart in…what was it, second year? Anyway, other than those two incidents, Draco was pretty certain that Granger hadn't been all that acquainted with love.

Hermione looked mildly offended. "There's nothing wrong with romance," she informed him heatedly. "True love does exist, you know!"

Draco slid off of the branch and dropped to the ground effortlessly. "I didn't say that it didn't." It just damned well took its bloody time getting around to him, that's all.

Hermione sniffed. "You don't strike me as a romantic."

Draco shrugged. He tucked the mistletoe in the basket. "I'm not. I'm the last person on this earth that will compose a sonnet or throw myself in front of a sword to declare my feelings. There are kinder, less deadly means of expressing myself, I thank you."

"So where do you stand on the issue of love, prithee?"

He picked up the basket. "I see more of your bloody berries over there." He walked around her. "I've seen love in all its forms. There is one that is truest of them all. It's real. End of story."

Hermione walked beside him. "Tell me what you've seen."

* * *

Draco had spent most of his life guarding his thoughts. When he had chosen to say something, it had been either a complete untruth or simply revealed nothing about himself. He had discovered quickly that in this time, with Hermione, neither of these things held true. On at least two occasions he had let hours slip by him with no notice as he talked with Hermione. He now felt himself easing into a third, bloody well strolling and chatting about his life like a lovesick hero. 

He was no hero. He barely qualified for anti-hero. He was more villain-struggling-with-belated-conscience material, and that was on his best days. He didn't stroll, and he didn't chat. He was Draco Malfoy, player of the Game. He ingratiated himself by performing tasks for women that ultimately led them into his bed. He had familiarized himself with all the right moves long ago, and had learned to use them well by the time he was sixteen.

Falling in love had only become a recent priority, somewhere around his twenty-first birthday. It was all Potter's fault for getting married to that Lovegood girl. Draco had taken one look at the happy couple, then at his date, and had found what he felt for her so lacking that he had immediately taken her home. That night had been the first drunken-contemplation-party-in-the-library incident. Damn thing was becoming a birthday trend.

He glanced at Hermione. He had to admit that it had been a little bit worth it, this time. This thing with Hermione was no game. He had taken the basket because it had been heavy. He talked to her because it was easy. He listened when she spoke because he genuinely wanted to know what she had to say.

He was in such deep trouble.

He knew now that this was Hermione Granger. It wasn't just her face. It was the soul. Dressed in fifteenth century garb and speaking with a Scottish lilt, Hermione had the same core character that Granger had had. But she wasn't exactly the same, and therein lay a problem.

If this was what he thought it was…If he chose to accept the impossible, Draco knew that he would have to make a choice. If he pretended for a moment that the curse did not exist and that his decision to return to the future rested entirely on his…_feelings_ for her, then Draco was faced with the intricacies of time. _This _Hermione and _that _Hermione shared qualities that centuries would never diminish. She was dependable, the pillar of strength that others looked to. She had courage, intelligence, and a need to learn. She had a quick wit and a sense of justice that made her the constant champion of the underdog.

But circumstances had shaped the person that Hermione was in each life. The Hermione Draco had known in school and wartime had had a quality about her that reminded him more of Hannah than the girl he now spoke with. _This _Hermione believed that good people were good, and bad people were bad. Good always triumphed over evil. Hermione Granger had not been so idealistic. Good _should _win, not _would _win.

He and Hermione stood by the river now. She had taken the basket from him to search out perfectly round rocks. He had started to help her, but had quickly been distracted by an impromptu stone skipping session. He was quickly lost to his wonderings.

Granger had always had an answer. If she didn't have one, she looked for it. If she couldn't find it, she was completely out of sorts. The world had to make sense, be categorized. This Hermione was, for lack of a better term, more naïve. Accepting of things she could not explain. She had essentially taken him at face value. She hadn't actively interrogated him, or really blinked twice at his claims to be from the future. She was softer somehow. More burdened, a bit more serious, but not jaded. Not yet.

Hermione would change little by little in the next 600 years. He would not. If he went back to the future, would he find that Hermione was no longer someone he could…fancy? Would she outgrow him? Would she still _need _him like this? Did he…fancy only _this _Hermione, and not Granger?

His answer would ultimately decide his future, and that scared him. He didn't have to return home. He could stay with her. Draco could live out his days with someone he was dangerously close to admitting he needed.

"-scrying the future."

He froze in mid-motion. Draco's head snapped to the side. "_What_?"

She looked back at him in surprise. "Do ye not know that method, then?"

"For scrying the future?" What had he missed? "Tell me about it."

"Tis a silly game, I know, but those who lose the amulets as a prize like to take their chance with it. Water from the cave lake fills a cauldron and placed in full moonlight. One drops a coin in the water and in the moon's reflection sees the future." Hermione smiled excitedly. "On this night even _I _can look!"

His blood froze in his veins when she continued, "Perchance I'll ask the cauldron about you, Stranger."

"No!"

Hermione's smile disappeared at his unexpected vehemence. "Why?" she asked, confused.

_Because you might see what I've done! _He shouted at her silently. _Because then you might see what I intend to do! _He thought quickly. "Knowing your future, or anybody else's, seems that it would be a huge burden." He knew his tone was strained, but he continued for some semblance of normalcy. "What if you see something that's really good? What if you tell the person about it and their knowledge changes things? It's a lot of responsibility. I don't want you to see something that might end up going bad in the end. " Fool!

He captured her eyes with his and he poured ever single bit of willpower he had inside in that look. "Promise me you won't look, Hermione," he commanded softly.

Hermione stared back, entranced. "I-"

"Promise me." He took a step closer, entreating her. "Please."

_Say no, Hermione! It is the devil asking you this favor!_

_Devil? Oh, Hermione, ye of all people should not think such things. Have faith. There is good in him. You see it._

_He is hiding something!  
_

_As are you._

Heart pounding, Hermione struggled with herself. Her grip on the basket tightened. She felt like she was fighting against something so much bigger than herself. Lips trembling slightly, she nodded jerkily. "I promise."

_Heaven help me_, she prayed, _let that be the right decision._

Draco stood and watched her watching him…and felt like a villain.

He squeezed the rock in his hand brutally. What the hell did he think he was playing at? He was stuck in this time, in this place by a man he'd never met. A man who had put before Draco everything he'd ever wanted or needed but could not hope to have unless he did Aniston's bidding. But what, Logic asked, would Draco be asked to sacrifice in the process?

"Bugger it all!" Draco swore. He threw the rock viciously away. It crashed into the water. Hermione jumped at his unexpected movement, almost dropping her basket. She caught it just in time.

"What's the matter?" she asked quickly. What had just happened?

Draco gave a bark of laughter. "Everything is the matter. The _whole world _is the matter." Before he thought, he'd snatched up another rock and hurled it with all his strength. Another quickly followed, then another, and yet another after that found itself flung into the river. He didn't know what made him do it, but somehow it seemed imperative that he further destroy the harmony of the moment.

Hermione reacted instinctively. The basket fell unheeded from her fingers, and before it could hit the ground and spill her prizes, she was in front of him. She caught his wrist before he could hurl yet another stone, her other hand splayed on his chest. "Stop!" she cried out. He tried to twist out of her grip, but she hung on stubbornly. The end result was that he jerked her forward until she crashed into his chest. As quick as a blink he had her by the shoulders. She thought he would push her away, but he didn't. Instead he stilled completely, hands curved over her shoulders, head bowed. Hermione thought he might be looking at her hand, but she wasn't sure.

Unbidden, her own eyes fell to look at the appendage. It looked so small against his frame. Somehow she had managed to find the exact position of his heart, the organ beating steadily beneath her fingers, if a little faster than usual. She knew she was being too familiar with him, that she should move her hand, but she left it where it was. Strange comfort filled her that she had irrevocable proof; right here and now, that Draco of Nowhere had a heart like everyone else in the world. Sometimes he seemed superhuman, something more than anyone else in her eyes. Here was the evidence that he was mortal too.

Draco had gone silent, unmoving but for the slight flexing of his fingers. It was far removed from his explosion of energy but a moment ago. For some reason, Hermione felt fear creeping up, eating away at the comfort. He looked like a man condemned, she realized. Condemned and ashamed.

She brought her face closer, trying to look up into his eyes. He turned his head away. "Tell me," she said in hushed tones.

"Why?" he rasped. "Why should I tell you? It would--it would make you look at me differently." And gods help him; he didn't think he could bear that. _You fool. What have you done? _He shook his head in swift denial.

Unexplainable alarm shivered up Hermione's spine, a curious foreboding. She swallowed it down and forged ahead. "Are you not friends, Stranger?" she ventured tentatively.

He looked at her then. Piercing blue eyes connected with brown, unflinching. "Are we?" he inquired. "Are we friends, Hermione?"

Were they? "We can be," she compromised. "If you trust me, Stranger, I promise I will do all I can to help you."

"What if I told you that friendship wasn't enough?" He didn't know what forced the words out of his mouth, but no truer words had he ever spoken. They rushed out of him now. "What if I told you that I crave something more from you?"

Hermione was glad that the act of breathing was involuntary. She might have forgotten to do it otherwise. She hadn't expected him to do this, give voice to that intangible something that had been steadily growing between them. Before she could think of responding, Draco dropped his hands and turned away. "But I can't," he continued. He rubbed his face in a frustrated gesture. He sounded defeated. "I've done something, Hermione. Something I didn't want to do and now I can't seem to stop it."

The moment he had stepped away, she had felt bereft. Now his words chilled her to the soul. The breeze picked up, pulling her hair over her shoulder. She tried to blame her shiver on the wind's antics, but knew it was useless. "Stranger. I'm afraid."

The words had just slipped out. She hadn't meant to say it aloud and even then they had emerged softly. They managed to reach his ears nonetheless. He turned back to her, saw that she had unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself. She looked like a waif ready to be taken away by the wind.

He knew then that no matter what, he would protect Hermione. Something inside would accept nothing less from him. Draco had never before been particularly brave, or noble, or self-sacrificing. But then, never before had he been in love.

There. He'd admitted it to himself. Draco Malfoy had fallen in love with this strange girl, who couldn't do magic. A girl who had never seen his world and likely could not begin to imagine its reality. A girl who knew hardship and yet somehow managed to stay more pure than Draco could ever hope to be. A girl who inspired him to reach for something higher.

Hope. That was the word that came to mind when he thought of Hermione. Hope and belief. She had faith in him, more than she probably realized showed in her eyes every time she looked at him. It terrified him that one day he would fail her, that one day he might have to watch trust die out in brown orbs.

* * *

Aniston Malfoy contemplated the map before him. "Difficult," he murmured to himself. "Tree line too far away. Might be useful to hide reinforcements, but this damnable field…Open ground, open ground, open ground…" Aniston tapped the tip of his dagger against the sheepskin. He repeated the action over and over, staring at the ink rendition of his prey as he had so often these past months. Tap. Tap. Tap. A slow, deliberate staccato that never varied in rhythm. 

Aniston leaned closer to the diagram. His eyes devoured every line completely. He had it memorized. He had traversed every nook and cranny many times in his dreams. Yet Aniston was compelled to study it over and over, convinced that the answer he searched for would reveal itself in due time. If just looked at it long enough, listened hard enough…

"Where are you?" he whispered to his obsession. "Tell me where you are. Tell me how to _find you_."

"My Lord Malfoy?" The soldier's voice broke into Aniston's solitude abruptly. Aniston didn't look away from the floor plans on the table or give any indication that he had heard, but the soldier was unnerved nevertheless. No man or woman had ever disturbed him as Lord Malfoy did. Relatively new to the nobleman's command, the soldier had been taken aback at the shiver of fear that had coursed through him when first he saw Aniston Malfoy in the flesh. The man had a look to him, a cold quality that froze a fellow to his bones.

After a long moment of silence, the soldier decided to forge ahead. "My lord, the Scotsman is here to see you." Aniston raised icy blue eyes. It was like being stabbed with an icicle. "Show him in," he directed, quietly exuding menacing authority. The soldier left as quickly as possible without actually running. The corner of Aniston's mouth lifted in a sneer. Fool. He wore his fear on his face. Aniston had no need for such weakness in his army. When the time for battle came, Aniston would personally see to it that the coward would man the front wave of the attack. The first to rush in…the first to fall.

Aniston traced the illustrated floor plan. It was drawn as close to scale as possible, as per the Scots barbarian's description. For his sake, he had better hope that it was accurate. Soon Aniston would be seeing those walls in person. Soon he would be able to touch the stones he had been itching to conquer ever since he had first heard that tantalizing conversation, mere months ago. To think, Aniston marveled to himself when he sat back, all this time the civilized world had thought the family extinct. For centuries they had survived in the barbarous wilderness of Scotland, and no one had ever known it. If not for a chance encounter, an overheard conversation, Aniston would never have rediscovered the existence of the fabled Guardians.

All thanks to a disgruntled Scotsman with a taste for gold.

_Soon_, he thought once more when the tent flaps parted. Soon the thing he wanted the most would be his. And this arrogant, greedy, backwoods son-of-a-bitch was delivering it without understanding exactly what he was handing over.

The secret to eternal life.

* * *

She shouldn't have been able to read it. Logically, this book should have been linguistically incomprehensible to her. Bugger it; the book should not have existed at all. It was made of sheepskin, as much written material consisted of during the era it was said to have been bound…but no one would have sacrificed this many sheep for the sake of a mere diary. 

Unless the contents were a matter of life or death. Only then would someone take the time and effort to bind the codex. Only then would someone have written the contents not in English, but Gaelic…a language Hermione had not been aware she would recognize, much less be able to read. The message she had found inside had been chilling…

Life and death.

Hermione lurched up, snatching the small chest and barreling through the attic. "Dad!" she screamed. She reached the top of the stairs, calling out for her father over and over while she ran down step after step. "Dad!" By the time she reached the main landing, a note of desperation had worked its way into her voice. A man rushed up to meet her on the ground floor. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

Hermione froze mid-step. "Uncle Nathaniel," she said. Her eyes widened ever so slightly.

Her uncle looked at her oddly. "How is it you can always tell us apart?" Very few people could do it as Hermione, a fact that never failed to bemuse the family. But Hermione wasn't listening. She was caught up in wonderment, confronted by something she had known all her life but had never truly paid attention to before now.

Nathaniel and her father were identical twins. As it often was, identical twins ran in their family…

"Hermione?" her father asked, entering the room at a quick pace. "What's going on?"

The sound of her father's voice broke the spell. Hermione finally blinked, her brain mobilizing once more. "Dad! I have to go to Scotland!"

* * *

Night had fallen, and the keep had come to life. 

Garlands of flowers and ribbons festooned the side courtyard. Somehow everyone managed to cram into the space, a constant mobile mass that laughed and played among music, food, and drink. A place had been designated for the dancers. Draco watched in amusement, as the Scots didn't dance in any fashion he was familiar with. Nobody really touched anybody else except for the hands as they were turning in a circle. Everything was precise and yet haphazardly done. It was something one had to see for one's self to really understand.

They had a dance for everything. War, marriage, courtship, even anger. Women wore their best skirts and the men their best kilts. Draco had actively resisted the kilt, but Magda had managed to get him into a new pair of trews and a finely stitched leather jerkin. Jerkin, Draco discovered, meant over shirt. It was short sleeved so that one could see the white long sleeved shirt he wore underneath. He also had new boots, softer than anything Draco would have imagined possible in this era.

Draco rather fancied he looked like a bleedin' Scottish Robin Hood, sans hat. Not half bad, though. He wondered if Hermione would like it?

Hermione. Draco crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, looking up at the stars. She hadn't spoken to him all afternoon. They had walked back to the keep in awkward silence. He'd drifted toward and been caught up by men's work, and she had disappeared into a crowd of femininity that even Draco could not penetrate.

Figuratively speaking.

Draco just didn't know what he wanted anymore. Well, he _did _know what he wanted. He wanted Hermione, plain and simple. He wanted to stay here because she was here, wanted to be the one she talked to for all of her days. She was the One.

Perhaps a better summation of the situation at the moment was that Draco didn't know what to do _about _her. He'd heard that honesty was the best policy. Never having practiced that particular philosophy before in earnest, Draco wasn't sure how well that would apply to him and her. Say he did spill his guts about Aniston. She'd either kill him, have Conall kill him, or have Hannah think of something truly torturous to put him through involving fire.

That could, of course, be his insecurities speaking. His track record with women was dismal at best. If he hadn't been using them (teenage Draco), he'd been losing them (adult Draco). Telling Hermione what his entire trip to this era was about _had _to be the fastest way to end a relationship before it had begun.

And gods, that touched on a new issue. Did Hermione love him? She felt something for him, that much he could see. She couldn't hide that or her fears. But did it go as deeply for him as his did for her? Was Draco tormenting himself with all these damned moral questions only to be setting himself up for rejection in the end?

Bugger it all! This love rubbish wasn't all he'd imagined it to be. It had emasculated his confidence in mere seconds, and he hadn't even confessed anything yet. He'd always envisioned the One would swoon into his arms, he'd feel manly and protective, and that would be that. Ha!

"Looking a little sick to yer stomach, Stranger."

Draco looked at the man addressing him. He looked familiar. "Do I know you?"

The man grinned. "I'm Donall. Conall's brother."

"Your father had no imagination."

"He was a bit of a simple minded fellow. Rhyming names made them easier to remember which child was named what."

Draco's brow crooked. "How many of you were there?"

"Eleven. He couldna keep it in his kilt, as they say."

And damned if they didn't all look the same. Donall and Conall's father apparently had never been able to hide his indiscretions from his women because of such strong resemblances in his sons. He'd started naming his children in groups depending on which woman they were from. Draco eyed the youngest, Patrick, the only standalone name in the bunch. "Couldn't find anything to rhyme?"

Patrick shrugged. "Only child."

Fellow must have died or something.

Unlike Conall, Draco found this group of brothers welcoming. They laughed and joked in ways that made Draco wonder if Conall had simply been born without a personality. Draco sat and accepted a mug of…something. He really didn't want to ask questions, having had an unpleasant encounter earlier in the week. It was impossible not to laugh at the bawdy jokes the brothers were making, but Draco still felt his attention slipping away to secretly search the crowd for a familiar figure.

"What are ya looking' for, English?" Heath asked.

"A good time," Keith quipped.

"Nay, lads, he's looking for a good--" Leith wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, "--lass."

Brady laughed. "I think our poor fool has already found such a lass."

Grady agreed. "He's been spending an awful lot of time in certain company. Who knows? Maybe tonight's game shall decide it all."

Draco looked back at the brothers. "What exactly is this game?"

Donall leaned back. "Well, it's only for single men and women. There's this pile of rose petals that everyone chooses from. That petal matches two found in each prize." He spread his hands out. "Simple, yes?"

Nothing, Draco thought, was ever simple.

* * *

"Hannah, how did you know Duncan was the one for you?" 

Hannah stopped braiding Hermione's hair. She tilted her sister's chin up and looked down into an uncertain face. "Hermione." She quirked an eyebrow. "You don't want to hear about Duncan and I. 'Tis an old story."

For once, saying his name did not brink back the rush of grief. Instead Hannah felt that familiar warmth he had sparked so many times since childhood. Duncan had not been the strongest, the smartest, or the most handsome man in the Highlands, but he had been hers. Duncan had been dependable, sweet, and loving. For a few glorious, that wonderful man had been Hannah's.

Hannah dashed away a tear. Hermione's face twisted. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, no. Ye didn't upset me. It's good to talk about Duncan, Hermione. He was a good man and I don't ever want to forget him. It's just that I miss him." Hannah sniffed back another tear. "I'll always miss him."

Hermione searched Hannah's face for signs of a lie. Finding none, Hermione turned back around and contemplated the table. Hannah returned to weaving the flowers in her sister's lock. Hermione indicated the window. "They sound like they are having fun."

"Hmm," Hannah murmured in agreement, tweaking a blossom. Unbeknownst to Hermione, an amused gleam entered her eye. "I'm sure even Stranger might have found a pretty girl to dance with."

Hermione tensed, then relaxed. "He wouldn't dance," she said with confidence. "Stranger must be a master before he will show off his skill, and he knows none of our dances."

"You like him."

"He's pleasant to look at," Hermione hedged.

Hannah tugged at a braid impatiently. "Don't play games, girl. Ye spend all yer time with the man. Ye have begun to ask questions about romance, something ye've never shown interest in before. And," Hannah finished with a triumphant smile, "ye are in here, prettying yourself up, instead of out there, dancing with Conall's brothers like ye do every year." Hannah gave Hermione's hair a final touch and then plopped onto a stool with a sigh to admire her handywork. "You are sweet on Stranger, and ye know it."

Hermione looked frankly terrified. Hannah laughed at her. "Don't look so, Hermione. People fall in love every day. 'Tis a natural and wonderful thing."

Hermione wasn't entirely convinced. "What if it's just an infatuation? What if he leaves? What if…" _everything is not as is seems? _she finished silently.

Hannah's merriment had fallen away. She regarded Hermione soberly. "Life isna kind to mortals, sister. Falling in love with someone does not guarantee a happy ending." She rubbed her protruding belly. "We are proof of that."

"What do I do, Hannah?"

Hannah threw up her hands in a familiar gesture and exclaimed, "How am I supposed to know? 'Tis not as if I have the Sight!"

Hermione giggled at the old joke despite herself.

"Actually, I haven't had a full vision in months. I'm sure the babe is taking up all my energy. But! Tonight we have this." Hannah indicated the cauldron on the table, already filled and simply waiting to be taken outside. "Maybe if we just--"

"No!"

Hannah froze. "Why not?"

"Stranger made me promise."

"He made you promise," Hannah repeated flatly. Hermione nodded slowly. "I see. I think 'tis time for us to join the celebration."

They got up, rearranging their skirts. Hermione, deep in thought, picked up the box containing the amulets while Hannah gathered the bowl of rose petals. They were at the door when Hannah turned to Hermione. "I doona pretend to know everything, or have all the answers. All I can tell ye is to do what ye feel is right."

Hermione nodded in understanding. As she closed the door behind him, she looked back at the table. Her eyes lingered on the seemingly innocent cauldron still resting there, unable to look away until the door blocked the way.

* * *

Patrick whistled in appreciation. "Lads, will you look at that? A fairy princess!" 

All the brothers turned to look at once, then suddenly began clamoring over one another before Draco could see what was going on. All around him people gasped and laughed and whispered till finally Draco's curiosity could stand it no longer. Fairly certain his mother would have died of embarrassment at his disregard for decorum, Draco climbed atop the table to look over the crowd.

Beautiful. Simply beautiful.

The people faded away, and time slowed down. There was just him and her and endless minutes to drink her in. She smiled shyly around her, blushing at the new attention. Her gown was simple, a deep green that contrasted the multitude of flowers cascading through her hair perfectly. When her eyes connected with his, Draco felt a fluttering of pride. Even in a crowd of men fawning on her, it was Draco that she looked for. He smiled at her and bowed a little in appreciation. A smile flashed across her lips, and she ducked her head shyly.

Draco became aware that the crowd of men begging for a dance was increasing yet again. Time to do something about that.

Hermione grinned at Conall's brothers indulgently. They were the worst dancers in Scotland, but still they pursued the activity with zeal. As yet, only Hermione would consent to partner them. It was a long standing joke that any other woman who danced with a Left-Footed brother would find herself wed before the tune had ended.

Hermione was about to say something affirmative to the nearest brother when a smooth accented voice cut in. "Leave off, lads. The lady's with me." Stranger playfully shoved Keith out of his way.

Leith shoved from the other way. "Find yer own dance partner, English! Hermione's _our _partner!"

"Our?" Stranger repeated.

"Hermione is the only one up to par," explained Brady. Grady and the others agreed heartily.

"They're all very…exuberant," Hermione murmured, a twinkle in her eye.

Draco could tell he wasn't going to win this fight. "Meet me when you're done?"

"It'll be a while," Donall warned, handing Draco a tankard. "Hold this." With that, they absconded with Hermione en masse, leaving a chuckling Draco with the drinks.

Draco quickly discovered what "exuberant" meant--tone deaf and without rhythm. He sat back to watch, incredibly amused at the proceedings. Even Potter hadn't been this bad.

Suddenly a bowl was thrust in his direction. Curious, Draco took it. There was nothing but rose petals inside. One very much looked like the rest. He picked one and passed the bowl, looking at the petal assessing. "What significance do you have?" he asked it softly.

* * *

"The game! The game!" the party-goers called. 

Two people were pushed up into the public eye. Draco could tell immediately that they were in love. The man spoke in the woman's ear with a lover's ease, making her blush prettily and giggle. He then held up his arms and called for silence.

"We will have our game," he announced. He reached back and snagged the woman's hand, looking at her warmly. "Now I'm not one for pretty speeches, so I'll keep it short. As last year's winners, it is up to Bridget and myself to present the new gift. Our prizes were these rings, symbols of unity. Tonight we present these amulets, symbols of two souls linking." The man added his hand underneath the box along with Bridget's. Together they held it up. "We hope they bring you as much happiness as our rings have for us."

Almost before the man had finished speaking, Draco felt a surge of tremendous energy wash over him. The box suddenly burst open violently, startling gasps from the couple. As one, the amulets leapt out of the box and rose quickly about the crowd. They began to glow very, very brightly. Draco felt uneasy, his hand going for his wand. The amulets were humming discordantly, clacking together and jerking about as if attached to marionette strings. Hermione and Hannah looked at one another in confusion. This had _never _happened before.

Just when an explosion seemed eminent, the amulets suddenly fell silent. They drifted like leaves on the wind forward, over the crowd, easily their way over the people. This time, when they fell, it was as the heavy objects they were--straight into Hermione's stunned embrace.

Hermione stared down. "But--I didn't choose a rose petal," she stammered.

"Go on, my lady," a woman next to her whispered. "Kiss it." Nobody else said a word.

Hermione hesitated. She didn't want to do it. She was afraid to do it, but no one refused to play the game. Once chosen, the Giver had to play. But perhaps it wouldn't work. She hadn't become a player, so what were the chances of the amulets performing their task?

Cautiously, she brought one amulet up and kissed it.

It reacted immediately. Before Hermione could blink the pendant had leapt out of her hand and was zooming dangerously across the courtyard. People cried out in alarm and leapt out of the way to avoid injury. One moment Draco was craning his neck and the next he was flat on his back!

He sucked in his breath. What had happened? His hand reached for his chest, where the pain resided. He brought what he found up to eye level. The amulet.

The blood drained from Hermione's face.

* * *

Hermione stared at the cauldron in indecision. Stranger had asked her not to look inside, and she had given her promise. But that had been before the game, before the amulets had made such an unexpected move. 

Hermione knew the amulets were not wrong. They had performed their function, ignorant of the underlying issues that still rested between Stranger and herself. They had only made clear what Hermione had refused to acknowledge to herself. Until now.

It was up to her to make a decision. She could either follow her instincts blindly or she could look into the cauldron. The first assumed she would have faith that everything would work itself out. The second highlighted her distrust but provided her with invaluable knowledge.

And then there was the question of aftermath. Time carried with it many theories that bore considering. If what she saw inside was the future, was it set in stone? Would any action she took henceforth invariably bring the vision to pass? Or was time a changeable entity? If she saw one vision, could she make one key decision that would alter it? The Greeks told stories of men, that by denying their destiny, ultimately brought about their own doom.

They also had a story of a girl whose curiosity about a box had unleashed hundreds of evils on the world.

Knowing all this, did Hermione truly want to risk the consequences? Did she truly want to know what the future held? Biting her lip, Hermione rubbed the face of the coin with her thumb. Part of her balked. The Sight was Hannah's gift, not hers. But the dread Hermione felt didn't abate. Hannah's gift had fluctuated over the course of her pregnancy. It was no longer reliable, except for those rare moments when she "knew" something. Who then could calm Hermione's fears?

She doubted Draco of Nowhere would be forthcoming with the answers she sought. Or maybe she was too frightened to ask?

Damn these confusing thoughts! Annoyed and frustrated, Hermione stalked to the window and looked down at the celebration. Hannah was surrounded by women eager to feel the life growing inside of her. Hermione traced her twin's face briefly before switching her attention to Draco.

Draco seemed to be having a time as well. He was avidly listening to the group of brothers, who wore jovial expressions. From the stunned look on his face and the way he reached for the amulet around his neck, Hermione knew that they had laughingly informed him of its meaning. It was a tradition almost as old as the castle. On one very special night, a night known only to those inside the walls, two charms were presented. They told the Giver, _usually _chosen by the rose, who his or her true love was. It was an old custom, one of the many secrets her family kept.

He was looking for her now. She had to act quickly. Hermione went to stand over the cauldron, positioned directly in the moonlight. The water within waited to accept the coin in her hand and reveal what she wanted to know. With a trembling fist, she held the coin over the mouth. _Truth or trust, Hermione._

She thought of Draco.

_Truth or trust. Choose._

She thought of Hannah.

_**Choose.**_

She opened her fist and watched the coin fall.

* * *

_TBC…_


	8. Part VII

Thanks to Sunnyjune46 and Lorett for doing incredible beta work.

To Sage and Sara, who always make me laugh.

* * *

**Part VII**

The cauldron was laying on the floor.

The coin winked at him in the moonlight, coldly reflecting his dread. Hannah had directed him to this room, hinting that he and Hermione needed time alone together. He knew now that any hope was gone now. His grip on the door portal tightened. His jaw clenched and worked. No one had to tell him what had happened here. He knew. It was over.

It was all over.

He pried his hand from the wood, stepping into the room. There wasn't a single speck of light except the moon beams filtering through the window. This was the first time he had ever been inside of Hermione's room. He had always imagined it in warm colors, welcoming him comfort. Instead it was draped in the black shawl of night, impossible to pierce with the naked eye. Draco stood over the cauldron, his hands tightly fisted. "Does knowing what will happen make you feel better, Hermione?"

She shifted in the shadows of the room, almost exactly in the spot he had thought she would be. Gods help the both of them, he was attuned to her, even with his sight handicapped. She didn't answer him, but he could feel the emotion coming off of her. Anger. Hurt. Draco swallowed, squaring his shoulder. "Do you know why I couldn't tell you? I wanted to, but it isn't just about me, is it?" Draco said bitterly.

She was on the move. He could not see her in the dark, but he could hear her. She was creeping from her position next to the window to his right, the barest swishing of her skirt the only sound in the room. "Say something."

Again she didn't answer.

"Hermione. Talk to me." Anything. Not this dead silence.

Nothing.

Anger surged. "Damn you, Hermione! Speak!"

"You. Bring. Death."

Draco felt sick, regret rising like bile. His heart had dropped into his stomach. The words had been rasped, forced passed a swollen throat as if someone had choked the syllables from her. "I didn't mean to," he confessed. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to meet a nice girl, fall in love, get married, and have that family he'd dreamed about. A nice, normal relationship with a nice, normal future. Things had gone dreadfully wrong.

"How did you get the secret, Draco Malfoy?"

Malfoy. Never had he hated his name so much. "I didn't," he denied.

"Stop lying to me!" she suddenly screamed. "Ye've lied to me ever since ye arrived and I trusted you like a blind fool! Now tell me how you got the secret!"

"I don't bloody know your secret!" he shouted back. "I haven't found it. The only reason I'm even looking for the damned thing is because _he _cursed me to die if I didn't! And believe you me," he ground out, "I might kill Aniston Malfoy personally when I meet him."

"What have you told him so far?" she persisted.

"Nothing! I've never met him! One moment I was fine where I was, and the next I am in this gods-forsaken era without a clue as how to go about myself!" Draco snarled. _Wrong wrong wrong wrong! _something in him shouted. The situation was spinning out of his control, and for the life of him he couldn't think of a way to regain his balance.

She abruptly went quiet. "So it hasn't come to pass yet."

She was right beside him. He turned in her direction. "_What _hasn't?"

Pain abruptly exploded in his head and he felt himself fall.

* * *

Hermione watched Draco collapse to the floor, the heavy candlestick in her hand. She had hit him just hard enough. He would be out for a while, awakening with only a mild headache. 

She stepped completely out of the shadows, face white in the moonlight. She should kill him. After what she had seen tonight, she should silence him here and now, eliminating any chances of that horrible future coming to pass. Wasn't it her duty as the lady of the keep? As one of the Guardian family?

Hermione gripped the dagger she had rushed for when he had knocked. She'd never killed anyone before. She was well trained, but had always assumed that her skills would only be used to protect herself or her family. Draco Malfoy was lying defenseless on her floor, not swinging a sword at her. And he hadn't told Aniston her secret. If his protestations were to be believed, he hadn't even found the secret at all. By all accounts, all he was guilty of was intention and lie by omission. If she killed him now, it would be murder….wouldn't it?

Hermione bit her lip. Did she have it in her to do it? To protect her people, the castle, and the secret?

She knelt next to him, raising the dagger. _Do it, Hermione. Do it. You have to._

Hermione looked into his face. Not a muscle flickered. He wouldn't be aware of what was happening. It could be quick. One plunge and he would be dead. His tongue stilled forever. He had admitted to his purpose. All that was required of her now was to carry out the sentence.

Her hand began to shake.

Hermione's eyes fell to the amulet he wore. The twin to the one _she _wore. Not for the first time the sheer gravity of the situation settled on her. Her shoulders slumped, and tears pricked her eyes. She ruthlessly forced them back. "Bastard."

Her hand fell to her side. She couldn't do it. God help her, _she couldn't do it_.

She loved him too much.

Hermione hated herself in that moment. Even knowing what he had come here intending to do, she couldn't hurt him. But she didn't have to let him go free. Hermione stood; tracing his features for what she thought would be the last time. How could someone so beautiful to her, be such a threat?

Hermione had no doubt that Draco Malfoy loved her. It had been in his eyes, in his voice. It hadn't sat any better with him than it had with her. They had both had their secrets. Those same reasons that had brought them together now separated them on opposite edges of the playing field. He wanted the treasure to save his own life. She had been charged with protecting that treasure with the last breath in her body, no matter what the cost.

Love had not been enough to deter him from his course. Love could not deter him from hers. She leaned down, grasped the pendant, and tore the necklace, severing more than one bond in that moment.

When she straightened, her eyes were cold. "I will not be made a fool of again," she vowed.

* * *

Hannah had noted Hermione's distress earlier. The poor girl had received a shock and needed time to adjust. Hannah had distracted the group at large, and after she had sent Stranger after Hermione, everyone had returned to merrymaking in earnest. They had been so certain everything would be fine. 

Hannah, as well as everyone else, now stared at Hermione in silence. Nothing stirred in the night. The instruments had been forgotten, the celebration halted. Even the stars seemed a little duller. Hannah felt a chill in her spine that would not be ignored. _Danger. A threat. More than perhaps Hermione realized. The blond man with ice in his eyes comes with death. _

Hannah gasped softly, blinking rapidly. A '_knowing_'. It had been quick, but terrifying. The blond man had looked uncannily like Stranger, but older. Colder. Whereas Stranger had struck her as a man fighting circumstances beyond himself, this man had been centered by anger and hatred. There was nothing where his heart should have been but envy and covetousness. Hannah refocused on Hermione, the color leeched from her cheeks.

Expressionless, Hermione looked back. "I do not know how much Aniston Malfoy truly knows of us or our purpose. 'Ties clear we must go forward with caution. We cannot give ourselves away, nor can we afford to back down. He wants something. We must make sure he doesn't get it."

Identical sets of eyes remained locked. "He comes tomorrow," Hermione said. "Gather what you cannot survive without tonight and return to the keep by midmorning. I fear for your safety if you tarry longer."

And every person knew that Hermione did not admit that lightly. Tensely the people obeyed Hermione, filing out of the courtyard and into the night. In minutes Hermione and Hannah were alone.

Hermione's sister was solemn. "You are not telling everything that you know."

Hermione swallowed. "Strang-_Draco_," she corrected herself. "Draco is from the future, as he said. He is Aniston Malfoy's descendant, sent here to discover our secret. I saw him tell Aniston, describing it _exactly_, Hannah. Then…"

"What?"

"You were hurt. And the castle was dying." Hermione closed her eyes tightly to block out the images_. People reaching out to her, begging for help. Hannah crying. A blond man raising his sword, death in his eyes._

_The man she loved no where to be found. _

Hermione took a deep breath. "I will stop it, Hannah. Draco is in the dungeon. He and Aniston cannot reach one another there. We will be safe."

"But how could Stranger have known?"

"How else, Hannah? I would have told him. I would have spilled my secrets and he would have offered them to Aniston."

"But you haven't."

"No. So he has nothing to tell. When we meet Aniston tomorrow, he will have no proof."

Hannah wasn't convinced. "He had to know something to reach across six hundred years for help in the first place."

"Perhaps it was the rumors."

"But why Stranger? Why so far into the future?"

"I don't know, Hannah." Hermione rubbed her face wearily. "I just--I doona know anything anymore."

Hannah's heart went out to her sister. Everything had been so wonderful and then had gone so wrong in the blink of an eye. It hurt her that Hermione had discovered what it felt like to be betrayed. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

Hermione stared into the night. "As am I."

* * *

Hannah was worried. Hermione had disappeared soon after they had spoken, and for once Hannah could not use their connection to find her sister. It disturbed her, sending a shiver down her spine at the possibilities of what exactly that might mean for the future. She wandered the keep for hours looking. Everyone moved with tense purpose, preparing for the dark days ahead. They had learned from early childhood what to do, making Hermione's role as leader temporarily defunct. She could literally be anywhere. 

It was the wee hours of the morning when Hannah stumbled across the seated figure of her own twin. Hermione sat on the floor of a deserted hall, barely illuminated by the torches. Hannah stopped a few feet away. "Hermione?"

Her sister's jaw worked. "Everywhere I go reminds me of him," she admitted haltingly.

Hannah's shoulders slumped. "Oh, Hermione." She waddled over, exhausted. She settled next to Hermione with a relieved sigh. Guilt flashed across her twin's face. Hands met between them almost immediately. It was habit that had been born when they were young. They hardly noticed it until someone pointed it out. This was where they found their strength, a bond that could only be severed one way.

"What are you thinking about?" Hannah asked. At first she thought Hermione wouldn't answer. It would have been a first, but understandable. Strange events were afoot.

When Hermione spoke, it was with earnest intent. "We have to keep control tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"When Aniston comes we must already be waiting. He will not like that we anticipated his arrival. It will make him unsure about what else we know."

"Which, of course, is nothing. I understand that the Englishman is a harsh man with many secrets. Information is not easy to glean about him. Waiting for him will shake his confidence a wee bit."

"Perhaps, then, he will give away something else."

Hannah nodded. "What he does not give, I will take," she stated firmly. Hermione watched her intently, worry evident. "You don't want me to go."

Hermione shook her head.

"But I am coming anyway."

Slowly, the minutest of nods. "We have to confuse him. No one knows the nature or form of the secret but they do know, if they are familiar with our line, there is but one true Guardian. Identical women will give him pause."

"I still can't believe someone may know about us. Our family disappeared from sight hundreds of years ago. Only you, Duncan, and I were privy to the knowledge when Father died. Duncan would not have told."

"Only one explanation exists," Hermione admitted reluctantly.

"A traitor," Hannah filled in grimly. "The question is, who? And why? Our families have been here long before this castle was built."

"There's also the question of when anyone had the opportunity to go to England or the Lowlands to contact Aniston." Hermione frowned. "I can think of no one."

"Nor I. But time will tell. We must watch carefully."

Hermione kept her eyes trained on the wall. "We'll meet him in the field then. Open view."

"Which of us shall speak?"

Hermione's mouth lifted at the corners. "You always like attention more than I, anyway."

* * *

Hermione felt hundreds of eyes staring at them from either side of the field. Beyond those trees stood men ready and willing to rush forward to take everything she and Hannah had. In the fortress there were men equally ready to defend the prize. 

Directly in front of them stood Aniston Malfoy, a tall, handsome man with features that were painfully familiar to Hermione. This was what Draco would look like in a few years. Hair to his waist, gleaming in the midmorning sun. Those eyes, though…Those eyes held no warmth that Draco's had. Hermione had the feeling that if Draco had not made that fateful decision he'd told her about, so too would his eyes appear.

Aniston Malfoy approached steadily, giving no indication that he was surprised to see them. Hermione knew, though, that he didn't like it by the tightening of his mouth. "May I presume that I have the pleasure of meeting the ladies of the household?" Though polite, the words held no warmth.

"What are you here for?" Hannah asked coldly. She met Aniston's hard stare unblinkingly, eyes as unyielding as stone.

Aniston flicked his tongue over his teeth as though he'd tasted something unpleasant. "I should have known barbarians would eschew even the barest of courtesies," he drawled.

Hannah crossed her arms. "You're trespassing, Englishman. You are lucky we didn't kill ye the moment you came within sight." She challenged him silently with her clenched jaw and defiant stance, quickly slipping into her old role as the assertive twin. Once upon a time Hermione had been the one that had looked to her sister for support and guidance. Time and tragedy had briefly reversed their positions, but as Hermione looked on, Hannah pinned Aniston with that familiar arched brow. "State yer intentions and get the hell off of our land," Hannah commanded brusquely.

Aniston eyed the women before him. They had brought only the barest guard. So had he. It was the way of these things. Yet Aniston had the added assurance of his…gifts. What abilities had they brought to the meeting? This family had once been known for abilities that went far beyond the comprehension of many, even in the magical world. Aniston could sense natural magic here, but how much? The breeding twin resonated, but the silent twin…

There was something there, dampened to a level that made it nowhere the degree of the pregnant one's aura. According to the stories, there was only one Guardian in each generation. Who was it? Which woman held the thing he craved most?

Aniston's jaw worked. So close. He was so close! This was the moment that would make his lifelong struggle worthwhile. The victory of all victories, the fight that would erase his baseborn parentage forever from the minds of society. Never again would they disregard his power.

He glared at the twins. "So that is the way we will conduct our affairs? With no pretty tidings to impede our progress? Very well." He stepped forward, eyes blazing with fervent light. "_I know what you are_," he hissed. "I know what you protect, and I want it. Surrender it willingly."

Aniston could not see it, but a shiver of fear raced up the twins' backs. To him they showed nothing. To each other, their worry was plain. Hannah hid her swallow by snorting, as if the very notion of surrender amused her. "And if we do not?" she asked archly. _How did you find out?!_

"I will kill every single person in yonder fortress. Will you have that on your conscience, _lady_?"

Hannah's eyes narrowed at the implied slur. "You are far from England, _Master _Malfoy." A corner of her lips lifted in satisfaction when the light in Aniston's eyes flickered briefly in confusion. Yes, she had seen his blood soaked rise to power. He'd murdered anyone who had stood in his way, the trail beginning in his childhood as a bastard and ending with the fatal beating of his father. The man had bestowed his land upon the child he had denied too long, only to find himself crippled and saddled with weak legitimate sons. Aniston had watched him bleed to death.

Here was a man who had no conscience, no humanity. But he still could not shirk his humble beginnings, she thought. She waved off the horde of men beyond where they stood. "Your army is no match for walls that have stood longer than memory. They will grow tired and homesick, deserting you for their families. Ye have no allies to aid you. Why should _we _be afraid of _you_?"

A moment, just long enough for a heartbeat, passed. Both women studied the blond man who suddenly smiled at them in cold delight. He smiled as if he knew something they didn't and he was enjoying their ignorance. "Because," he intoned, raising his hand in a strange gesture. Alarm fired in Hermione as Hannah stiffened, her head turning to the left. In that instant, Hermione knew they no longer controlled this meeting.

She was lurching forward even as Aniston finished, "I do no fight fair."

Hannah found herself pushed violently to the side. She heard a whistle, a cry from Hermione, saw the ground rush up to her. She tried to roll, but it was too late!

Hermione clutched her arm. An arrow protruded sickeningly from her upper arm, buried deep. The pain was tremendous, but her healer's mind registered that the wound would not maim her.

It would have hit Hannah in the neck.

More arrows flew. _Thump thump thump thump_. Her guards were hit. In the distance Hermione heard men shouting in denial. Her people would come to their aid, pouring from the gate, but not soon enough. Her guards were dead. Hermione staggered toward a screaming Hannah, miraculously untouched by barbs. _They weren't aiming for us_, Hermione realized.

Aniston raised his unsheathed sword over Hannah, preparing to stab down. He snarled in beastly satisfaction. "The treasure _will _be mine!"

The sword fell.

Hermione's dagger nicked his hand! Aniston jerked back in surprise, sparing Hannah at the last moment. Hermione stepped in front of her sister, who clutched her spasming stomach and cried, "The baby. Something's wrong, Hermione!"

Aniston stared at the panting creature that glared at him in defiance, even with a pierced arm. Warriors were rushing out of the fortress behind her, screaming wildly as they came to her aid. They were closing in rapidly, but Aniston could not look away. He flexed his hand. "You should have aimed at my heart," he observed.

"If I had been able to use me right hand," she answered seriously, "rest assured ye'd be dead."

"Then you have failed, little girl." Aniston hefted his sword once more. "Die with your sister's brat!"

"Hermione!" Hannah screamed.

Hermione threw up her arm as metal slashed down.

A flash of blue light. A crunch and a ringing. Then nothing but the thunder of feet.

Aniston stared at his broken weapon. Their eyes met. The unnatural blue looked back at him. No pupils, no irises, no whites. "You are the Guardian."

"I am far more than that, Aniston Malfoy," she told him, but not with a single voice. No, something else crackled in those tones, power beyond his wildest imaginings. For the first time in his life Aniston was enveloped by fear. Her words pricked his skin like little needles. If he had been able to move, he would have shuddered.

Her men were almost upon them, ready to fight to the death. The twin before him, the one called Hermione, held him with unblinking orbs. "Beware, Aniston Malfoy. Turn away now, before I find a way to send ye to hell."

Aniston made his mouth move, staring at her with unholy determination. "I would gladly fight my way through those fiery depths for this treasure. So return you to your fortress, little girl, and comfort your sister as you watch me destroy all that you hold dear."

And then he was gone, and then twins were enveloped in the rush.

* * *

He's been there forever, it seemed. Hours of endless contemplation and worrying, interspersed by shouts of rage. Draco had been reduced to simply sitting with his back to the wall and his head buried in his arms. All he could do, he realized, was wait. 

If only Hermione hadn't had the foresight to take his wand from him. She'd caught him unaware, and Draco had cursed himself viciously for allowing himself to be disarmed. Had the war taught him nothing? He had been a fool to trust her.

Just as anger began to build up again, it deflated. Who was he trying to convince? He'd passed blind rage hours ago. Draco hadn't done what she had accused him of, but he had intended to. For all his crises of conscience, Draco had been prepared to find and tell Aniston the secret. Once the curse was lifted, he would have found out with every dirty trick he knew, how to save Hermione and Hannah, but the curse _had _to be lifted.

What good was he to them dead?

Hermione had broken her promise, but he had broken her trust. Now he was stuck here with nothing but time to think. How could he fix this? In all his wonderings, Draco had yet to come up with an answer. He was no good with moral issues. He barely possessed the basic morals, and that was after eight years of practice! What chance had he of making this right with Hermione?

Situations like this required one of those miracles he'd always heard about.

* * *

The baby needed to live! 

Hannah screamed a little as another contraction hit her, despite her resolve. Her grip on Hermione's hand was vise-like. Fear and desperate hope warred in her eyes. She wanted to believe. Hannah could not, would not lose faith that her baby would survive despite the terrible odds.

Hermione had given her a potion meant to restore her strength, but the closer to the birth she came, the sleepier Hannah felt. Was this normal?

"One more push," the old midwife urged. The white haired woman had seen their own births and those of countless others. She knew in her bones something was wrong with the babe. She could see that Hermione realized it as well. Judging from the unusual and unnatural fatigue her sister was experiencing; it was obvious the lady intended to do something drastic.

With a long, drawn out cry, Hannah bore her son into the world. It lay very still in the midwife's arms. "A boy," she murmured.

"Let me see him." Hannah's words were slurring. Her eyes were falling closed, but still she held up her arms for her child. "I want to hold him."

"I'll hold him, Hannah," Hermione interjected. She rushed to the midwife with a blanket, effectively hiding him from view. One glance confirmed her worst fear, and she closed her eyes as she said, "You're so tired you might drop him."

"Is that normal?" Hannah was fighting sleep fiercely.

A look of warning from Hermione prompted the midwife. "Aye," she lied, holding Hermione's gaze. "Close your eyes for a moment, lady. You'll feel better soon."

Hannah was just so weary… "Just for a moment." She closed her eyes fully and was lost.

After waiting a time, the midwife sighed. "This is going to kill her. Sleep only delays the inevitable, my lady. Even you cannot bring back the dead."

Hermione cradled the bundled child close. "This child lives."

The midwife was startled. "My lady, the child has gone to God."

The eyes that looked at her then were chips of amber. "This child," Hermione emphasized, "lives." She turned to the door. "Stay with her. It'll be hours yet before she awakens."

The midwife watched the door close softly. "I sense an ill change in the air," she whispered fearfully, crossing herself. "Have a care, my lady."

* * *

It was dark except for a single candle brought in by the guard. The man had refused to speak to Draco but had looked like he dearly wished to kill him. That particular urge had been intensified after that string of insults against the man's mother. Draco was fairly certain that she was probably a virtuous woman, but hell, could the man not spare _five _words to tell him what was going on? Frustration had made Draco lash out. 

That had been about an hour ago. Draco's back hurt from sitting on unrelenting stone. He was just too tired to bother getting up and pacing one more time.

Draco raised his head. That had sounded like feet shuffling. Was the guard changing? No, the locks in the door were tumbling. Draco sat up straighter. Food?

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Hermione stepped into the candlelight, the weak beams cloaking her in a soft glow. She watched him stand slowly; saying nothing while Draco took in the hastily wrapped wound on her arm and the bundle in her embrace. "What happened?" he asked gravely. His heart had slowed its rhythm, impeded by dread.

"All Aniston requires is that ye find the secret, yes? Your curse will be lifted then." She spoke very solemnly, with barely an inflection to disrupt the tone.

"Yes."

"Then come with me."

* * *

She took him to the cavern. 

Draco descended the stairs cautiously behind her, ill at ease. Perhaps it was the remnants of the horror he'd experienced upon first discovering this watery chamber. He instinctively looked for Aniston's chest, still half surprised when it wasn't there. Draco's eyes swept the interior over and over. To him, it still echoed with ghosts.

Mostly, however, his tension was due to the girl who even now turned to look up at him. She hadn't spoken once since emancipating him from his cell. He wanted to know what had been done to her arm, but was afraid that he already knew.

Aniston had arrived, and time was running out.

He reached the bottom. Hermione pointed at the tunnel and said seriously, "That is the way out of here. Only members of my family may pass through." Lowering her arm, she held her bundle closer and began to walk toward the water. "My people were once nomads who took shelter in this very cavern. Amazing things happened here. They discovered this was one of those rare places that held natural magic."

Something pricked at the back of Draco's neck, making the hairs stand on end. He stopped his already halting steps. She was leading up to something. Hermione's eyes were flat, resigned, as if she had resolved to a course of action that may still lead to a disaster.

Hermione sighed. "They began to build, Draco. They were nomads no more. This cavern was warded against intruders, and another passage was cut through the dungeons for the others to use if they needed. This castle is out home, but…it is so much more."

She hadn't looked at him again. She hadn't called him Stranger. She hadn't said anything that gave him a clue about what she was thinking. Right then, even with his heart beginning to thump with dreadful anticipation, Draco felt incredibly alone.

She walked to the edge of the water. "You have to help me with this," she told Draco. "Hannah is usually the one who casts what I need."

Draco nodded, withdrawing his newly returned wand. "Which charm do you need to cast?"

"Charm? There is no charm." She ignored his look of surprise. "Give me your hand." She was holding her little palm out, waiting for him. _I wish it still meant more,_ he told her with his eyes. He reached out and took her hand in his, ignoring the painful squeezing in his heart.

"Now wave, and watch." Draco looked from her to the lake. She seemed very sure of this. Well, who was he to argue? He gripped his wand tightly and performed the basic swish and flick maneuver. The cave wall, feet upon feet of what Draco would have sworn were insurmountable rock, disappeared entirely.

Leaving a whole new cavern behind.

Draco gaped. "Hopping Hufflepuffs on All Hallow's Eve," he breathed in astonishment. "An illusion." The formerly modest waterfall had grown by leaps and bounds. It rushed over the stones to their left, extending along the wall and on into the darkness. The lake itself was no longer clear, but a murky massive body without an end in sight. It could go on for miles, Draco thought, and one would never truly know.

Hermione made to step forward, but Draco held her back. "Draco," she admonished, "I can handle this from here." He didn't look convinced, but allowed her hand to slip from his nonetheless. She paid no heed to the water soaking her skirts as her feet were submersed. She looked over her shoulder at Draco, who noticed a strange light had entered her eyes. "This castle, this cavern, this lake…they are all guardians. And so am I." She turned back to face the lake and lifted her hand over the water. "Rise."

A light, bigger and brighter than it had a right to be, began to glow in the distant watery depths. The water roiled noisily as something large began to rise. Draco rushed forward. "Hermione-!" His arms encircled her and he jerked her back. She didn't fight him but laid a hand on his chest. "Draco, watch. There's no danger." Draco turned reluctantly, but refused to let her go.

The light was growing brighter as it neared the surface. Finally it broke through and formed a single beam, straight and true. It struck the ceiling and burst, the energy rushing over the couple on shore. Draco shuddered, not from fear, but from sheer feeling. Never had he felt such purity! The light scattered over the roof, over the cavern, and seemed to sink into the very rock itself, creating stars within the earth. Great monoliths emerged from the same point of origin, like fingers reaching for the newly born sky. They rose until a common base appeared, and with it a long walkway that came to the shore. With a great shudder it halted. The water calmed, and all was dark except for the twinkling stars. Draco realized that he was holding his breath when the stones began to softly glow, humming with power. The air left him with a whoosh. "Well, I'm impressed." he quipped feebly. He was feeling a bit faint. The emotional roller coaster of the past hour was getting to him.

The monoliths formed a perfect circle that surrounded a raised dais. Something glittered in the center of each stone, but Draco was too far away to see what it was. Hermione moved in his arms, which he tightened instantly. "It's alright," she soothed. "There's nothing to be afraid of here. My ancestors created this place."

"They had too much time on their hands," he muttered.

"Come. We must do this while there's time." She took his hand in hers again and led him to the walkway that had risen out of the lake. Draco had no time to do anything but follow. The power he sensed here was distracting him anyway, sending goosebumps and shivers of awareness up his arms and down his spine. When they reached the entrance to the monolith, Draco drew back in shock.

There were people in the stones!

No, not people. Draco reached out and gingerly touched the closest stone, tracing the upraised features of a young woman. Faces. Each stone was intricately carved with faces, which were painted. They looked like they would smile and laugh at him at any given moment. "Your ancestors," he said.

Hermione nodded. "Not all of them. Just the ones who guarded this place. When our gift is passed on, our face appears on a stone. A visual history." She traced the cheek of the one next to Draco. It was a man, with brown eyes and curly dark hair with a streak of gray running through. "My father. He was a verra great man. I miss him."

It was then that Draco saw what emitted the glow that had first caught his eye. Precious stones the size of his fist were embedded into each towering obelisk. Draco's eyes traveled from one to another, mentally cataloguing. Bloodstone, the stone of courage. Agate, the stone of balance. Hematite, the stone of the mind. Azuritz, the stone of Heaven. Emerald, the healer's stone. Sodalite for insight and intuition. Iolite for inner knowledge. And finally Charoite, the stone of change and transformation.

Draco did a slow turn, taking it all in, unable to close his mouth. He vaguely noticed Hermione moving to stand in the center of the structure. This was it. _This _was what Aniston was looking for. This circle was likely one of the most powerful magic places in the world. Imagine what a wizard could do if he used it to amplify his own magic. Imagine what _Aniston could do_.

He whirled to face Hermione. "Why are you showing me this?" he demanded. Confusion and fear were racing through his blood, making him angry. All he had to do was get in touch with his ancestor. The curse would be lifted, and he would finally be free. Hermione had delivered to him the key to his salvation…and her death.

_She would die_, he realized. Pain wrenched through him, tearing at his heart. He imagined her dying, her laughter forever silenced. No more warm touches, no more smiles, no more stories, no more Hermione.

He stormed toward the dais. "Why, Hermione?! Why did you do this? Why show it to some stranger who might betray you?" he shouted at her.

She met him steadily. "Destiny has taken the helm. You are fated to be here, in this time and in this place." She swallowed. "I put you in the dungeon to prevent what I saw in the cauldron from happening. I tried to stop you from learning about this place so that I could save lives, but I saw today what denying Destiny does," she whispered. She unwrapped her bundle, letting the blanket drift to the floor. Draco stared at the baby in her arms.

"Hermione. Is that-- Oh, my god. Is that Hannah's baby?" A sick feeling assaulted him. _What's happening? What the bloody hell is happening?_

Hermione nodded, fighting back tears. "Aniston did this to him. I did this to him. I thought I could fight fate, but I can't. Locking you away did not prevent any of my visions from happening. They are out of order, but still they are occurring. In my vision you knew my secret, and your life was spared. I am giving you your life back, Draco Malfoy." She stepped upon the dais, straightening her shoulders. "And I am giving the baby his."

Draco was struck by a flash of insight. "Hermione!"

"_Arcesso_."

Instantly, the gemstones lit up as bright as the sun. Draco instinctively threw up his arms to protect his eyes, stumbling a bit. Thousands of voices shouted, chanted, laughed, sang, rose and fell. One by one the gems, except the Charoite, threw beams of energy into Hermione with the force of physical blows until they connected with one another at the common port…her. Wind from nowhere rose up and swirled around her, whipping her hair and clothes in the gale. Draco saw her clutch the baby closer, her back arching. She threw her head back as if she was in great pain, her eyes wide and unblinking. He saw her lips moving as he struggled to get closer to her, but he couldn't hear her and he couldn't get past the forces that were separating them. The voices got ever louder and began to harmonize, men and woman saying things in a language Draco couldn't understand.

Hermione's heart began to glow.

Dear gods, what was happening? He could see the organ through her clothes, could hear it beating louder and louder. He tried to shout, to help her, but he couldn't find his voice. Panic was welling up inside of him. _Please be all right_, he begged her fervently. _Please, please be all right!_ Suddenly the Charoite, which stood at her back, burst. A pillar of fire flew at Hermione as true as an arrow, piercing her heart!

Draco screamed his denial, certain she was dead.

She lurched forward from the impact, but amazingly managed to keep her feet. Draco watched anxiously as she raised her head…and smiled. There, not one foot in front of her was another stone. It floated in the air with nothing to hold it, a brilliant blue gem that had no name. It seemed to suck up all the voices and gales inside of it until there was no sound but the beating of Draco's heart in his own ears. _It came out of her heart_, he kept thinking. _That thing had been living inside of her this whole time._

Hermione reached out and cupped the gem in her small hand, bringing it to her mouth. She blew on it, making it glow softly in her fist, wisps of magic trailing from it. She gently laid it against the baby's small chest. To Draco's shock the gem sank into the infant's skin. The heart glowed brightly for a moment, then faded. The power crystals surrounding Hermione did the same, disappearing completely in moments. The Charoite was once again intact, as though nothing monumental had just happened.

"Wake up, little one," Hermione said softly. "Your mummy will be missing you." She brushed a fingertip over the baby's nose, tickling it. The baby's eyes opened. It sucked in a great big breath…and began to cry.

Hermione found that her knees would no longer support her. She collapsed in a billow of fabric to the floor.

Hermione held up an arm, preventing Draco from coming any closer. "Stay where you are!" she panted. She felt so weak! She could not remember a time when the gem had not resided within her. She felt hollow, like her soul had poured out onto the dais. Hermione swallowed down belated panic, gathering her courage.

Draco halted at her command, unsure of what to do. Then he shook himself. Since when did he take orders (without his mother being threatened)? "Don't be stupid, Hermione-" He started forward again.

Hermione moved back and shouted, "I said stay away from me!" The baby started, and she had to cuddle the infant closer. "You," she huffed, "have a choice to make, Draco Malfoy. Here and now. You know the secret that will save you. This place," she panted, "will amplify magic exponentially, yes, but it is not the true secret. The Guardians aren't just protectors. We are _keys_."

Draco shook his head, not comprehending.

"We protect the gift given to us with our lives. By the same token, the gift gives us life so that we may protect it. This place is dangerous by itself, but if one with the gift stands within it…Nothing could defeat it. And if the gift is passed onto one with aspirations of eternal life, he could bring himself from the brink of death infinite times. Aniston wants that, Draco. He wants to live forever, and rule over the world."

She stared him down. "I have trusted you with the knowledge of eternal life as well as the location of one of the most powerful weapons on earth." She stopped to drag in more breath. When had the act become so difficult? The wound in her arm throbbed. She knew that the life-giving entity she had protected for so long, no longer cushioned her pain.

Draco couldn't move. What she said was true. He now knew secrets that made not only Hermione vulnerable, but also the entire Wizarding World. He had just been given exactly what Aniston wanted.

"What will you do with that knowledge, Draco?" She looked at him with an unfathomable expression. "What will you do?"

Indecision had frozen Draco to place. Once, not too long ago, the answer would have been clear to him. There had been a time when he would have eagerly taken the power and all its possibilities for himself. He would have relished the high, exploited the resource, exalted in rising so far above. He would have ruled everything in existence, an absolute monarch.

Draco was not so far removed from his teenage self that he felt no temptation. It would be so easy. Aniston would be at his mercy. Hell, everyone would be at his mercy! No one would be able to challenge him.

He could live forever.

Draco felt himself sway.

_Are you still that same boy, then? Are you still that same child?_

_No_! Draco thought emphatically, struggling against the silken voice that had guided him for most of his life and of which had denied since he was seventeen. He was _not _the same Draco Malfoy that had blindly repeated his father's footsteps!

_Remember what it was like to break free, Draco? Remember how you felt when you realized you were doing the right thing for the first time in your life?_

He remembered. He recalled the exact moment it had happened. Very few incidences in his life since had come close to matching it. Draco Malfoy had become something more to himself then, and that was in danger of being forsaken in exchange for an immortal life.

And if he lost himself, Draco thought, as he looked at the girl kneeling on the ground, there would be nothing left to live for.

Voldemort had gotten lost in his fight for power. He'd never been satisfied, and it had led to his destruction. Even Draco's own father had fallen prey to power's seduction. Where had that left the Malfoy family in the end? Still searching, that's where. Still looking for the ultimate treasure that would finally, _finally _fill that empty space inside. Ironically, that search had led him here.

To Hermione.

Draco blinked. Would he be able to live forever with the knowledge that Hermione could not look him in the eye for shame? Taking the power for himself would cost him Hermione. Draco breathed out. "I will stay here with you."

The alternative just wasn't worth the price he would have had to pay.

* * *

"I never broke my promise." 

They sat on their roof. Barely a day had passed since then, but yesterday morning seemed years ago. The stars were just beginning to peek down from the heavens. Draco turned toward Hermione. "What do you mean?"

"The coin. I never dropped it in the cauldron." She sighed. "Knowing the future without asking ye at least one more time felt like a betrayal of--" What was the right word? She shrugged, finding none that were completely accurate. "Of us. Of this thing between us. It felt wrong, and so I let the coin fall beside the cauldron."

Draco braced his elbows on his legs and his chin on his fist, listening silently. Hermione chuckled mirthlessly. "What I didn't know was that Hannah had used the cauldron earlier. She left the coin inside. She…wanted to see if the baby would be a boy or a girl. She saw nothing." But then, the babe had been dead, had it not? What strange tricks magic played.

Draco stared blindly at the horizon. She had really trusted him, then. Draco remembered realizing that he would rather cut off a finger than see her trust die. He'd thought that breaking her promise had killed trust. The truth was that he'd found a way to murder faith after all. Now they were in a gray area, unsure of the next step to make. "What do we do, Hermione? Where do we go?"

Hermione considered it. They had two options, as far as she could see. They could pretend what had been there was there no longer. It was a safe road. Neither would have to face any messy feelings in a moment where it seemed like the world was spinning out of control. Safe--but lonely.

That left one other recourse. Hold breath and jump, trusting she and he would catch one another.

Draco watched Hermione reach for the chain of her amulet. She tugged the jewel out of her bodice. To his surprise two amulets hung from the necklace. She worked one free. "The rose never lies," she said, holding up the pendant. "This belongs to you."

Draco took it, staring into the liquid depths. "Do you want to be with me because the pendant says so?" he asked quietly.

"No." Eyes locked. "I want to be with you because I love you, Draco Malfoy. The pendant only shows the way. The heart does as it wills."

_This_, Draco thought as she leaned forward and pressed soft lips to his_, is the most perfect moment of my life. _

Hermione's kiss was sweet and untutored. It touched him in ways even the most practiced had not. She kissed him because it meant something; because it expressed emotions that were often cheapened in the life he'd once lived. For a moment Draco savored the sensation. He was temporarily content to simply be kissed. Soon, of course, he couldn't ignore his own need to show her his heart. He cupped her face and kissed her back, teaching her with patience. He loved the feel of her hands cupping his neck.

The moment broke when he touched her tongue with his. Hermione jerked back in surprise, giggling at the stunned expression on his face. "What did ye do that for?" she laughed.

"It's what people do!" he protested, and then chuckled at his own defensiveness. Did it really matter how they kissed? Lips were meeting, and that was what he should be focusing on! He let his forehead meet hers, pushing her hair behind her ears. "But we don't have to. Right away." He _did _like that sort of thing, after all.

"What are you thinking about?" she murmured.

"Oh, that I'm lucky. That I can't believe it's finally happened. That I'm in love with you."

She snuggled into his arms. He relished the feel of her there. "Tell me everything, Draco. Tell me about your life, about your goals, about nothing at all if you like. Just talk with me until the sun comes up."

"For that long?" Draco sighed as if the possibility itself tired him out. "Where should I start?"

"At the beginning, of course."

And so he did.

* * *

"I bloody well will not, Hermione, and that's final!" Draco growled menacingly. He turned to walk away, but she pulled him back. 

"Stop running away, ye fool, and listen to me!" Frustration and tension nipped at her patience. She gripped his shirt so that he could not go without taking her with him. "I doona want ye to go either, but 'tis the only way!"

Draco glared back at her. "No, it's suicide! Going to Aniston's tent and telling him that I know the secret, and- Oh! It just happened to be _literally living inside of the Guardian_ seals not only my fate but yours, you daft Gryffindor!" He was shouting by now.

Only the knowledge that this man was genuinely afraid for her wellbeing prevented her from hitting him (repeatedly). Hermione sucked in a breath and tried for a calmer tone. "Unless you tell Aniston face to face what you know, Stranger, you can't be sure the curse is broken."

She would address the question of what a Gryffindor was later.

Damn her and her logic! Draco swore to himself. "He'll have no idea what I'm talking about. He hasn't invented the curse yet," he ground out.

She shook her head. Her hand had loosened and was smoothing the fabric of his shirt absently. "He never specified when he be told. This will work to our advantage. Think, my love! The more confused you keep Aniston, the longer you have the upper hand." She implored him with eyes slightly dimmed by worry.

"What you're suggesting is dangerous, Hermione," Draco told her in a low voice. "What if something goes wrong? What if…what if he sends me back to my time?" Draco ducked his head, ashamed of the fear evident in his voice. Would he ever get used to baring his emotions to her?

Hermione stroked his cheek gently. "Stranger…I never expected you to stay here with me."

Draco's head reared up. He looked betrayed.

"Nay, hear me out. Ye came here so suddenly. In a blink of an eye ye arrived from one time to another. In the back of my mind I always thought that ye would leave the same way." She smiled ruefully. "Even when I suspected my feelings for you went beyond that of a hostess, I refused to delve deeper. I didna want to hurt when you left. Ye _would _leave, because what reason had ye to stay?" she asked quietly.

"You." Draco was earnest, unable and unwilling to hide the need he felt for her. "I would stay here for _you_." He cupped her neck. This was not something she would ever be able to doubt with him. Never this.

Her smile was small, but so beautiful. It was full of love for him. Draco filed it quickly away and vowed to himself that he would do whatever it took to see it again.

"I knew ye would. I want ye to stay." Her smile dimmed. "But ye are no good to me dead." Her tone turned urgent and commanding. "So you _will _go, you _will _tell Aniston what you need to, and ye _will come back to me_." She shook him a little. "Ye have to come back."

Gods, what could he do? He dragged her into his arms hugging her so tightly she might have had trouble breathing. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the dread and the doubts. "All right," he forced out quickly. "All right, Hermione. I'll do this. Just promise me you'll be waiting for me when I come back."

"I promise." Hermione stepped away, dashing at stray tears quickly and pointing to the battlement. "There. I'll watch you go. You will see me there when you return. But you have to go now." She took him by the hand and tugged him along. "While I still have strength to let ye go."

He certainly hadn't intended to leave so soon, but Draco realized quickly that it was now or never. If he waited, he would remember what an utter stupidity this course of action was!

When the secret door slid open, Hermione practically threw herself in his arms. Draco was smothered in kisses that were fervently placed anywhere she could reach. He returned the favor just as ardently, suddenly very afraid. As abruptly as she had jumped on him, Hermione tore herself away. "Go," she urged.

Draco put his hand on the door. "Aniston knows about this," he confessed. "I don't know if I'm the one that tells him, Hermione."

Hermione nodded. "Do whatever you have to. Just come back to me."

With one last long look, Draco stepped through. The door closed behind him.

Hermione ran. She didn't care who she pushed out of the way. She ignored cries of indignation as she went ever up, clutching her amulet in a white fist. She reached the battlement an eternity later.

He looked up, a small figure far away from her. Hermione raised a shaking hand and waved at him. He couldn't see her convulsive swallow. Draco grabbed hold of his own amulet, no doubt just as warm as hers. He waved back with forced cockiness before resolutely trudging off toward Aniston's encampment. To her complete astonishment, he disappeared!

Hermione gasped. She leaned over frantically and searched for any sign of him. Just as she was about to panic, she ruthlessly grabbed reason back. He was still alive. Here was the proof in her very hand. The amulet glowed as brightly as ever, its soothing warmth tangible against her skin. Stranger was not lost to her.

So there she stood, bathed in the rising light of day, staring across the distance and praying that the fear in her heart was for nothing.

TBC…


	9. Part VIII

Disclaimer: JKR owns most of the characters. The plot is mine.

**Part VIII**

**Scotland, Present Day**

"Hannah! Wake up!"

The girl that had been thrashing in the bed lurched up at the sound of her mother's command. Momentum and disorientation knocked her off balance and sent her sprawling on the floor of her bedroom. She blinked in confusion at her mum's fuzzy puppy slippers wiggling their tails at her. She braced her hands on the floor and lifted herself up a bit, pushing wild brown hair out of her face. "What happened?" she asked groggily.

"You were having another one of your dreams. It sounded awful." Her petite mother, complete with hair curlers and bathrobe, watched in concern as Hannah hauled herself back up on the bed. "I don't know what makes you have such visions, girl, but I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

Hannah sighed and brushed away the tears that had been cried unconsciously. "They're getting worse, Mum. Ever since I got back from France I can't close my eyes without seeing something strange."

Her mother nodded slowly. Sympathy was evident in her eyes. "You've always been a special child, Hannah, but this is the first time you've ever seen anything of that sort." Tera patted her child's cheek and rubbed away what moisture Hannah had missed. "Even before you set your brother's shoes on fire and that letter arrived, you always _knew_ things. You knew that your father was going to leave. You knew that Conall was supposed to be your brother, and you were so very little at the time." For a moment Tera looked uncertain. Some internal struggle happened before Hannah's very eyes, and then Tera seemed to reach a decision. "Conall called this morning, Hannah. He's in an airport and he's coming home. He says…he's been having dreams."

Hannah absorbed the information with more aplomb than Tera had. Her child usually had an air of calm that very few things could shake. It had unnerved Tera a few times to have so serene a toddler, but as time passed and Tera had begun to grasp just how different her little girl was from other children…well, she had learned to live with it. Sometimes she had relied on Hannah to steady her up when things got rough, like her divorce. It had been Hannah that had steered Tera toward a lonely widower who happened to be in the post office one day. That man had turned out not only to be the love of Tera's life, but the father of Conall, who had quickly become the child of Tera's heart.

Conall had been wandering the world like a vagabond for so long that Tera doubted he would ever grow roots. He came home as often as possible, but never like this. Visits were always planned at least a week in advance. For Conall to call out of the blue and announce his immediate return…Tera couldn't help the shiver of apprehension that coursed up her spine.

Time had run out of that invisible hourglass she had become more and more aware of as months passed. She could feel it. Tera didn't know how much good she could do for her special daughter, being without talent herself. All she could really do was pray.

Hard.

* * *

**Scotland, 1473**

Draco didn't have a means of making himself truly invisible. As much as he'd coveted Potter's Invisibility Cloak, the sod seemed impervious to bribes and refused to give it up. If there was ever a moment when Draco could have used that bloody cloak, it was now. Heading into an enemy camp had never been high on Draco's to do list, but to do it by _himself_ and from the _front_ went against every survival instinct that had been bred into him. Fortunately he was not without his tricks. He had a handy little spell that, while not actually rendering him invisible, camouflaged his body to perfectly match his surroundings. A very slight drawback being that it would only last two minutes and twenty-two seconds exactly.

The moment he'd cast the spell, Draco ran. Heart pumping, breath panting, he raced across the open expanse like his life literally depended on making the safety of the trees. _Go. Go. Go. Faster. Have to make it, have to make it._

So many things pounded in his brain as he ran. Too many to make sense of them all, but he knew that they revolved around Hermione. His need to protect her ached in every part of him. His fear that he would fail nipped at his heels and forced him to accelerate at the expense of caution. The one person that truly mattered to him in this life was depending on him. He couldn't let her down.

The rising sun was just lightening the sky when Draco felt the spell fizzle out. He was still just out of reach of the trees. "Bugger it to the front left side of eternity!" In one last-ditch effort Draco threw himself into one of those full-out body rolls that Moody had forced him to learn. He collided with the ground and likely an exposed tree root that knocked the wind out of him. As he lay in the damp foliage, now visible, Draco felt the biting urge to spit out the foulest curses he could come up with. _I've pulled a bloody muscle, I know it_. Unfortunately, he had neither the time nor the air.

So he only rolled over onto his stomach and heaved himself into a crouch. He took deep breaths and tried to calm his heart. Draco drew on every skill he'd ever acquired as a Slytherin, a Malfoy, and a war veteran to make his way silently across the dew speckled ground. The morning mist still clung to the earth. It swirled around his feet as he moved from tree to tree. . No one was within twenty feet of him, if his calculations were correct. Yet Draco could detect the faint traces of magic drifting to him on the mist. Not all family members could feel it when one of their blood did magic, but it had been decided long ago that Draco would be specifically trained to do so. It had been meant for a darker purpose than Draco now used it for, but he was grateful for the long hours of practice. He needed an edge over Aniston.

The closer Draco came to the camp the more movement he could see. There wasn't all that much quite yet. Draco was in spitting distance of another guard, and the man had no idea that he was there. They had been trained to listen for different sounds than Draco had. Moody had believed in educating his apprentices in both Muggle and Wizarding detection. It allowed Draco to break through admittedly tight cracks in the patrol line, though it left him with only seconds to spare for his effort. He came up next to the tent that had to be Aniston's. Nothing stirred inside.

His heart thumping a little faster than normal (he hadn't done this sort of thing in quite while), Draco carefully drew out his wand from its holster, relishing the familiar weight of the wood. He drew in a deep breath. This was it. The moment he would finally look Aniston Malfoy in the eye.

Pray that he came out of the meeting the victor.

* * *

Conall rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired. There was so much to do and so little time to do it in even with the considerable effort put forth by the people of the castle. Aniston had come at such a critical time for them all. Crops hadn't been harvested and meat hadn't been gathered. The supply of foodstuffs was dangerously low for a long-term siege. It would last maybe a week if they were lucky. The dirty bastard. 

Trying to bring life back into his limbs, Conall stretched his arms towards the sky. He cracked his neck from side to side for added measure. When he opened his eyes, though, his gaze caught on something unusual. "Hermione?" What was she doing on the battlement?

In Aniston's camp, the sounds of a struggle ripped through the silence of the early morning. Two men cursed viciously at one another and something broke. There was an abrupt shout and a crack. The soldiers only a few feet away from Aniston's tent barely had time to react, rushing through the flap too late. Aniston stood in the center of dismembered furniture in nothing but his small clothes. Blood stained his sword. "My lord?"

Icy eyes swept over them before returning to the object in his hand. Chest heaving, Aniston studied the unusual adornment on the chain, tilting his head to the side in puzzlement. "A _love_ trinket?" he rasped out.

Two heartbeats later the amulet reacted.

The charm in Aniston's hand pulsed violently, the energy slamming into his flesh with the force of a hammer. He swore viciously and grabbed the arm that had instantly gone numb, the amulet trickling from his fingers to hit the ground like spilled blood. It glittered brilliantly in the torchlight for one eternal moment.

On the battlement Hermione narrowed her eyes, sensing something. She barely had time to draw her next breath before an icy hand enveloped her body. She cried out in surprise.

Aniston watched in pained astonishment as the amulet on his tent floor burst.

In his crib, Hannah's baby began to wail, his cries echoing against the eerie silence that had suddenly cloaked the castle.

Conall burst through the door to the battlement, ready to fight. "What the hell was that, Hermione?" he demanded, striding toward the still figure of his lady. Abruptly he halted, sensing something was off. "Hermione?" The sound of dripping caught his attention. He rushed forward in alarm. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "Hermione-!" He sucked in his breath.

Hermione looked up at Conall with a blank expression. She didn't seem to be aware that tears were coursing down her cheeks in two small rivers. She held up her hands, the pieces of glass cupped in her palms. Like heart's blood, the contents of the shattered amulet splashed over her front and across her skin, landing on the stone drop by drop. Conall cupped both of her shoulders in confusion. "Are ye hurt? What happened?" he asked frantically. When Hermione didn't blink, the alarm that had flared inside him grew. She barely seemed to breathe. Conall searched her face and began to realize that he had seen this sort of expression before, only months earlier and on another face. Dread boiled inside while he cast desperate looks around the battlement, looking for other signs of life. There was no one there but the people in the bailey below. "Someone find a healing draught! Hermione needs help!" he shouted down. "And fer God's sake, someone find Stranger!"

This couldn't be what he thought. It just couldn't be. His lady had only had an accident with her bauble. That was all. Conall refused to remember that it was no ordinary charm that she wore around her neck, but something made up of the essence of earth. Mishaps could happen, he told himself as he tugged Hermione toward the door. She followed in jerky movements, her mouth forming whisper soft words that Conall couldn't bring himself to listen to. "_Gone. Gone. He's gone. Never coming back. All alone_."

Nobody said a word as Hermione walked like a ghost among them. They saw her holding the shards of the amulet like the broken pieces of her heart, and they knew. Her pale face matched the pall that had settled over the stones. It was as if the moment Stranger left this world, Hermione's spirit had followed him and taken the life that had thrummed in their very earth with it. Those who had run forward to be of assistance now parted to let their lady glide past. Not even the wind stirred her skirts, but one could not help but feel chilled. Wives and husbands hugged one another close. A few others shed tears in remembrance of someone they had lost. Still more cried a tear for the tragedy called life, that would tear apart two people who obviously meant so much to one another. It would have astonished Draco to know that more than one person had considered him a decent man, and mourned his loss.

And what else would this day bring? Their way of life, protected from the world for so long was being threatened. Who knew what would happen when the sun rose to its zenith and it was time to fight? It might be any one of them that would be the one crying for the person they loved.

It was a somber mood indeed.

* * *

"Let me see Hermione!" Hannah shouted at the servant women. She struggled against their attempts to press her back into the bed, driven to make it to the door and find her sister. "Let me go! I want to see Hermione!" 

The midwife held the squalling infant and tried to reason with his mother. "Please, my lady! Ye can't get out of bed or risk bringing sickness! Ye've just given birth and yer body hasn't had time to absorb the draughts you were given."

Hannah suddenly flicked her hand and sent the three women subduing her tumbling. They collapsed to the floor, startled but unharmed, giving Hannah time to rise to her feet. Magic curled around the fingertips of both hands. Hannah swiftly waved them in the air, drawing a shape in the air that was made up of elements that the midwife could not fathom. Hannah shut her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, drawing the symbol into her body too fast for anyone to react. Then she exhaled.

When she opened her eyes it was to find the room staring in awe. Even the baby had quieted, comforted by his mother's magical presence. "There," Hannah told them quietly. "No more sickness." She came forward with fluid movements that belied the events of the past twenty-four hours, to take her son away from the midwife. He was still fretful but snuggled into his mother's embrace. She kissed his little brow, awed by the miracle that he was, even as she leveled a stern and determined look at the women surrounding her. "I am going to see my sister, and will not suffer any interference."

With that she swept from the room. She hurried down the hall as quickly as she could with a newborn, her heart swelling with emotions that were not her own. The women in her chambers remained frozen for a few moments longer. One finally crossed herself and said, "No matter how long I live, witnessing miracles such as that never fails to humble me."

"It never will," the midwife attested. Despite the heavy uncertainty that weighed upon them all, she felt a small smile tugging at her mouth. Warmth sparked inside her heart. "Our families have been blessed to see such works on earth with our mortal eyes."

"But what about Aniston Malfoy?" another woman, the maid Magda asked. "We've never been threatened before. Does this mean that we have finally been forsaken?" Anxiety festered inside them all. Magda was simply giving voice to what had been on all of their minds.

I doona know why we're being tested, girls. I only know that it is indeed a test. Ye canna be afraid that you've been abandoned. Ye must hold tight to yer faith and face whatever is placed before ye in life. Remember that no matter what happens, miracles like that," the midwife indicated the direction Hannah had gone, "are not everyday occurrences in this world. We've been fortunate. Keep that knowledge close to you."

No one said aloud what they all realized. Faith would be tested much sooner than many had anticipated.

* * *

Aniston didn't waste any time. He commanded the two imbeciles that had rushed to his belated rescue to call the others to arms. They would fight this morning and no later. Gritting his teeth, Aniston shook his arm to restore some feeling. He eyed the destroyed trinket lying on his tent floor. This morning's events had been strange but, oh, so interesting. His confrontation with the boy mere minutes ago had given Aniston the much-needed insight that he had sought.

Armed with the information he'd gleaned, Aniston was ready to take on the supposedly impenetrable fortress that had taunted him for so long.

Eyes gleaming, Aniston made to ready himself for battle. _Draco Malfoy_, he thought to himself_, you've provided an incalculable service to me_.

_I will give my regards to your lover._

* * *

Conall looked up and frowned at Hannah when she opened the door to Hermione's room. "Yer supposed to be in bed," he told her gruffly. Even knowing this, he was relieved to see her. He hadn't been making any progress with Hermione. She sat like a docile lamb on the chair he had placed her in. She'd lapsed into complete silence. The tears had also come to a halt. In the early morning light that was just peeking through the windows, she looked like a wraith. There was no life in her eyes at all, and its absence hurt him deeply. He'd grown up as close to Hannah and Hermione as any of his brothers. They were his family. If Conall could have found a way to take their suffering into himself, he would. One of Life's little cruelties was that he couldn't. Not even Hannah with her incredible abilities could manage such a feat.

He straightened and step away from Hermione to let Hannah in closer. "She won't speak. I can only guess what's happened and I don't want to say it aloud." Unless it proved to be true, he finished silently.

Hannah took in the situation. Her eyes misted immediately, but she forced the tears back by swallowing hard. "Hermione?" She waited for a response to her soft inquiry but received none.

Hermione gave no indication that she realized that Hannah was even speaking to her. Hannah's eyes met Conall's. "Take the baby," she bade him. He did as she asked, walking away to sit in his own chair at the wall.

Hannah stood before her seated sister and reached out gentle hands. She stroked Hermione's hair the way their mother used to do, framing her face and brushing the remaining tears away with her thumbs. She knelt so that they were at eye level. "Hermione, tell me what happened. Where is Stranger?"

Her twin didn't move. Her eyes were unfocused as though she had retreated deep within herself. Hannah's eyes misted that much harder. "Hermione, please. Talk to me. Don't go where I canna reach ye." Sniffling, Hannah looked down at her sister's hands. She released Hermione's face and made to remove the pieces of the amulet from lax fingers. She picked up one piece—and gasped when Hermione suddenly clenched her hands tightly. The shards sliced through flesh and blood dripped.

Hannah tried to pry the pieces out of Hermione's hands, commanding her to release her hold in a choked voice. Hermione's arms were trembling but her face registered no pain. Not sure what else to do, unable to reach her sister with her voice alone, Hannah violently gripped her twin's wrists and shook. "Let go!"

Abruptly Hermione did just that. What remained of the amulet tumbled from her hands and tinkled to the floor. It sounded to Hannah like a million dreams crumbling. _How could it come to this?_ She wanted to wail. _How could God let this happen to not just one, but both of us? Why?_

Hannah managed to pluck out the pieces that had buried themselves in Hermione's skin and rubbed special salve on the cuts. When it took effect, combined with the Guardian's gift, Hermione's hands would be healed in mere hours. Hannah didn't dare use any of her own magic to heal her sister. She was not so recovered from the pregnancy that she could control her gifts more than a few spurts at a time. It would be hours yet before that happened. Their grandmother had taken the longest to recover, unable to do magic for a month after giving birth to their father. The fastest recovery period recorded in their family had been a day. Hannah knew herself well enough to realize that hers would be one of the swifter recuperations. She snuck a glance out the window at the rising sun. She had to be careful, though. She had to rest her powers for the moment it was desperately needed. 

She decided to turn her questions to Conall. "Where did you find her?"

"The battlement. They said that Hermione ran like a crazed woman before dawn and stood there nigh onto eternity facing Aniston's camp."

"I felt something strange in the air earlier. The baby as well."

"I too. A deathly chill that soaked into my very bones. Think you it's something to do with Stranger?"

"I cannot imagine what else it could be. There are too many factors for it to be coincidence." Hannah finished wrapping Hermione's hands and rubbed her arms. She desperately wanted to hold her child and take comfort in the newborn smell of him. Hermione's grief reminded her of what it had felt like to lose his da. Hannah could not imagine the agony of losing the little person that had been a part of her body for so long.

Hannah's attention then caught on Hermione's wounded arm. She could still see the bandage through the white sleeve. Hannah's brow furrowed. Why hadn't it healed yet? Had Hermione merely forgotten to take the dressing off?

Unease gripped Hannah. There was something afoot here. That arm should have been in perfect condition by now. The more Hannah dwelled on it, the more questions surfaced. Why had Hermione been looking at Aniston's camp for so long when she would normally be preparing the castle for a siege? Obviously Stranger had gone to the camp, his only motivation that Hannah could detect, being the need to spill their secrets to their enemy. But why? Hadn't Hermione told her that they had they had reconciled? She had been given the impression that the two of them were very much in love and prepared to fight for it.

Yet…The last few moments of labor were unclear to Hannah. All she knew was that she had awakened to find Hermione at her side, cradling the baby close. Something about it had bothered Hannah at the time, but she had been so overjoyed to finally meet the little boy who had made her life worth living, that she had forgotten about it. Now it came back to haunt her. Hermione's story about forgiving Stranger in the aftermath of the birth now seemed sketchy and hastily contrived. She had missed something important. She just knew it. Yet the only two people who had all the answers were Stranger and Hermione, and both seemed just as unreachable at the moment.

* * *

After more efforts to question her sister and finding only stony silence, Hannah and Conall had taken the baby out of the room to quickly inspect efforts to fortify the castle against the inevitable siege. The sun was well over the horizon by now, burning away the morning dew and announcing to the world that time was running short. Hermione remained in her room, shrouded from reality by one simple, repeating truth.

_Stranger was gone._

The words were like lead to Hermione, pressing her into the chair and keeping her there with her thoughts. Her arms lay limply in her lap. _He was gone_. She shouldn't have sent him to Aniston. Mayhap there had been another way and she had been too blind to see it. If she had just waited, would another plan have made itself clear? Sending him into the camp had been akin to sending him to his death. He had to be dead. Aniston wasn't merciful. He would have killed Stranger the moment the opportunity had presented itself. Why hadn't she seen it before? Why had she begged him to go? Why?

_Why?_

There were people in this world that spent their entire lives searching for what Hermione had found - and lost - in six days. Some never found what they were looking for. She had been so foolish to let Stranger out of her sight for even a moment. She should have kept him close and never released her hold on his hand. She should have known this would end badly. Hadn't she understood that Stranger didn't belong in this time from the very beginning? His presence here had seemed transient and insubstantial to her from the first moment they'd met. She should have taken that into account.

For the first time Hermione stirred. She'd been trying to save him, she thought to herself harshly. All she'd wanted to do was help free Stranger from the hold Aniston had placed on him sight unseen. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Aniston wanted to destroy everything that she held dear; he wanted to pervert the gift that the Guardians had given their lives to protect. He'd almost taken away Hannah and her babe. Now he'd stolen Stranger from her. Her hands curled into fists, the sting of pain finally penetrating her consciousness.

Where was the justice in this? Hadn't she and Hannah done their best to be good protectors? Why would God or Fate take away the people that they needed the most in the world? Hermione began to rock a little. _No_. Not God. _Something_ else. Something much more fickle. _Someone_ much more base and evil in intention. Hermione's eyes shifted. They fell on the small cauldron. That treacherous little vessel that had vividly detailed the way her life would come crashing around her ears. It sat innocently on the table, placed there by some misguided soul who thought they were helping.

Hermione's gaze had fixed itself to the unremarkable thing. It pulled at her, demanded that she look and remember everything that she had seen in its depths. Anger pooled in her stomach. It grew and stretched and spread within Hermione's body the longer she looked. The rocking accelerated. She bared her teeth, the air hissing in and out with rapidly shortening breaths. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, sending the blood pounding in her ears to drown out all other sound.

In a blur of motion Hermione leapt from the chair and sent the cauldron flying. It slammed into the fireplace with a screech and a crash, splitting the dying fire spectacularly. The screen that had shielded the fire was destroyed instantly, ash bursting out of its keeping, to land dangerously close to the furniture. Hermione ignored the servant who had rushed in at the commotion and was now in the midst of damage control, staring instead at the cauldron. It lay in the ashes with a gaping fissure down its base, never to be used again. Even as Hermione shook with rage she smiled with satisfaction.

Fickle Fate would never again hold control over her.

As for the other, she thought as she turned to the door, eyes burning with the need for retribution. He would soon know that this once-Guardian would never allow such crimes against her and her loved ones go unpunished.

* * *

"Where are ye going, Hermione?"

Hannah was racing after her sister across the bailey, once again cursing that devilishly fast stride that ate up the ground. She'd caught sight of her twin quite by accident while giving hasty instructions to a soldier. The people had been working throughout the night to set up as many precautions as possible; from barricades to sick beds in the Great Hall, to provisions, to hiding places. The people of the keep had been in a tizzy to fortify themselves from a threat unlike any they had ever seen before. Some began to pause to stare at their lady, who snatched a bow and a quiver from a passing warrior without stopping. Instead of brushing the hand that Hannah lay on her arm away, Hermione grabbed a hold and proceeded to practically drag her sister after her. The pursuer had abruptly become the accomplice. She stalked to the lower door that would take her to the battlement.

"Hermione, I don't understand what you think to do?" Hannah gasped behind her.

Hermione pushed through the high door. She finally let go of Hannah's hand to prepare her bow. "I'm going to send Aniston Malfoy a message," she told Hannah tersely.

Her sister looked at her as though she'd grown another head. "Have ye gone mad, Hermione? That's a short bow. It'll do no good to try and shoot that thing into the dense wood, and not at this distance. Even if he were to stand away from cover and be perfectly still. Come away with me and we'll find somewhere to talk."

This time Hermione did reject Hannah's hand. "Look, Hannah! He's right there. They're gathering already." She pointed at the tree line. Sure enough, there were men separating from the trees and forming lines in rapid succession, armed and ready to fight. At first Hannah couldn't believe her eyes. She squinted. She rubbed the backs of her hands over her face. She stood so close to the stone that she was leaning over empty space, and still the vision did not change.

"Hermione. Those…are not all Englishmen."

"Nay," Hermione concurred grimly. "Duncan's clan. I believe we've found the traitor."

"No! Duncan would never!"

"But his brother would. Yer so logical, Hannah…think. Why would he feed Aniston everything he knows about us?"

Hannah's jaw tightened, betrayal festering in her heart. "For the castle. My death. My babe's death. He wants the people to follow him, so he seeks Duncan's murderess as a gift to them. He wants no heirs to challenge him." The hatred and greed of men had destroyed Duncan and now it was coming after her family. "I imagine it only took a few bags of coin to sway Duncan's brother to Aniston's cause."

Hermione's eyes caught on a silver flash in the distance. She tracked it like a hawk, certain it was Aniston. Her fingers flexed on the bow. She was itching to kill a human for the first time in her life. He was already breaking through the ancient barriers her people had set up long ago. It was only a matter of time before he made it completely through and could begin his assault on them in earnest. She stepped as close to Hannah as physically possible, ignoring the bustling men around them and speaking only so that her sister may hear. "He's bent on taking everything we hold dear, Hannah. Your husband is gone. He almost destroyed you and the baby. He's—he's stolen the only man that ever mattered to me." Identical eyes met. "I sent Stranger into the encampment to tell Aniston our secret. If he did, then the curse on him would be lifted and we would have found a way to be together. I know we would have. Now it's too late."

"You can't be sure he's dead. Mayhap Aniston sent him back to his time."

"When did Aniston leave ye with an impression of mercy, Hannah? When he was raising his sword to kill you? Aniston would not have spared Stranger if he thought he would live forever…As an immortal he needs no family line." Hermione looked away. "Even if by some miracle Stranger lives, he is so far beyond my reach that I can never dream to be with him again."

"No." Hannah shook her arm, a thought occurring to her. "Hermione, Hermione, think. Stranger exists. Doesn't that mean that Aniston had a family line?"

Hermione looked at her sister askance but the other twin ignored it. Her hand curled around her sister's in growing excitement. "For Stranger to live, Aniston had to have a family line that extended at least six hundred years. Aniston has no sons, Hermione. He is newly wed. Don't ye realize what that means? _He will beget heirs because he needs them_. He will not be immortal, Hermione! Didn't ye tell me that all you saw in the cauldron came to pass? Fate has fixed a course that even Aniston's greed cannot change!"

Hermione wouldn't believe it. She refused to believe it. She shook her head. "I don't believe in Fate anymore. I will make my own destiny."

"Then make it! All I'm saying is that there is still hope. Aniston will not get the gift in his lifetime, that is for certain."

Hermione thought quickly. "That would be why he laid the curse on Draco. He knew Draco existed. Why? Revenge for his loss?" A curse was an excellent way to reach across the ages from the grave. Another thought occurred to her. "If he begets children, that means I do not kill him this day." Bitter disappointment flooded her.

"But it could mean that he is defeated."

"Perhaps, but not before the last part of my cursed vision comes true." Hermione closed her eyes as she began to absorb the implications. "Aniston takes this castle. I know it in my soul. I hoped against hope that Stranger's absence in the vision was because I'd locked him away in safety." Fresh pain clawed at her, making her tremble beneath its weight.

Hannah worried her thumb with her teeth. The enemy was forming ranks much more quickly than she had anticipated, and she felt the wards surrounding them weakening at an accelerated rate. They didn't have much time left. "What if we let him have it?" she wondered aloud.

Hermione didn't appear surprised. In truth she hated the thought of leaving what had been their home for hundreds of years, yet the drive to protect the gift overcame her attachment to her earthly home. If fleeing meant survival for her family and fulfillment of their essential purpose, then so be it. "We couldn't leave right away. He would suspect an early victory and hunt our people down like animals."

Hannah looked around to make sure there was no one listening. "Our stored provisions will last us five days." She cursed the bastard for arriving before the harvest. "If we can hold him off for four days, we can start smuggling the people out group by group and scatter them to the winds. Pray that there really isn't an internal traitor that will sound the alarm. We can send each group with enough food and water to make the run."

The twins were solemn. "You know as well as I that we canna go with them," Hermione said softly. "It'll just be me and you again."

Hannah nodded. "It'll always be that way. Into death and beyond. The question is where do we want to go in the meantime?"

The two of them knew that they only had minutes left. Already Aniston was preparing his archers, and it was time to assemble their own. Conall's brothers were already shouting orders, and men were rushing around the twins as though they were the eye of a storm. Hermione squeezed Hannah's hand one more time, and then set about notching her arrow again. "Have ye learned to speak French yet?" she asked with a tinge of humor.

Hannah shook her head. "I never really could do the vowels. Besides, I doona think I would like France."

Hermione used Hannah's shoulder to hoist herself up onto the wall. One step stood between her and oblivion. Hannah steadied her by gripping her sister's leg underneath her dress. "I hear that they have excellent farmland. We'll need to make a living, you and I."

"Did you know, Hermione," Hannah asked casually, "that in England they call farms 'granges'?"

Hermione froze. She was unable to look at her sister. She was unable to move. Unable to think. Afraid to hope. "W-what do they call farmers?" It came out in a breathless whisper.

Hannah's eyes were sharp. "Grangers."

"Don't tease me, Hannah. Please. I couldn't take it."

"Something is telling me to go to England. That is where our destiny lies. Stranger isn't dead, Hermione. Within England lies the answer."

"I doona believe in destiny anymore." Hermione's voice was paper thin, as if she just didn't have enough left inside to dream.

"Everything will be alright, Hermione. If we play the hand that we have been dealt well, then we can find a way to cross time and bring your love to you again." Hannah's hand tightened on Hermione's flesh. "The future is hopeful. I feel it."

Hermione hung her head, eyes pressed tightly shut though a few tears still managed to squeeze out and slide down her cheeks. It was mad. Hannah had no hope of regaining the Sight fully so soon after birth. Her "knowings" were vague, and Hermione realized this better than anyone. Did she really think that a chance still existed? Could she really take the risk of believing? She would be broken beyond repair if things were to turn out badly. But then… could she _not_ take the risk? Could she really live the rest of her life knowing that she was alone because she had been afraid to try? Hermione laughed at herself sadly. It seemed that her eternal optimism had not been destroyed after all. She nodded in jerky assent. "_Alright_."

Hannah nodded too. The deal was struck. She schooled her features and turned her face to the threat that loomed over them. She wiggled the fingers of her free hand, breathing in and out deeply, preparing herself for what lay ahead. "The barriers are about to crumble, Hermione. Ready yourself."

"What is she doing?" Aniston's second in command asked. He squinted at the battlement. "It looks as though she intends to shoot a lone arrow into our midst, my lord." He shook his head at the stupidity of women.

Aniston smiled in cold amusement. "That must be the one called Hermione. She is likely quite upset at the loss of her beau." Let her try. No doubt the bitch was too grieved to realize her mistake. One false move and she would tumble to a very convenient death. Ah, but wait. Was that the breeding twin next to her? Aniston's eyes narrowed. Pity. She hadn't died after all.

"Hold your fire," Hermione commanded Conall's brother Grady. "I want the first shot." She lifted the bow and drew back the arrow, gritting her teeth against the pain in her hands and arm.

The magic in Hannah's hand grew brighter. "This is for Duncan and my son."

The Highlander called Thomas leaned forward and swore. "It's the murderess herself standing next to her." He bristled with the need to fight and destroy. Aniston was not so uncouth that he would be caught rolling his eyes, but the barbarian's animal instincts did elicit that curling smirk of disdain.

Aniston carefully pulled off one leather glove. "Patience, Highlander. Let us see what the women will do in their desperate hour. This is nothing more than a final attempt at goading us into premature action." The barriers were weakening under his silent assault. Any moment now the fight of his life would commence. Aniston was almost as eager as a boy with his first wench, but he hid it expertly from his companions save for that bright light that had flickered to life in his icy eyes.

The energy from Hannah was beginning to gather its forces around the twins. Warriors watched in wonder as the air around their ladies crackled. Sparks spat from Hannah's hand to fall to the floor and dance excitedly. Hannah was drawing from the earth and the air, her hand on Hermione's leg ensuring that her sister partook of the exquisite forces that existed there. It hummed in their veins. Their clothes and hair sang with mysterious harmonies that only they understood. Hermione began to count. "One." She sighted Aniston, her fingers tightening on the wood of the bow.

Hannah inhaled. "This is for Stranger and our people." She exhaled.

"Two." Hermione's arm was beginning to tremble from the exertion. Her jaw was clenched in concentration, the numbers hissing through her teeth.

"_This is for us_." Hannah took the biggest breath and held it--

"Three!"

The bow twanged as the arrow was released. Hannah swung up her hand and blew.

To Be Continued...


End file.
